Stranglers, Stranglers, Stranglers, Oi, Oi, Oi
Strolling along
Minding my own business
Well, there goes a girl and a half
She’s got me going up and down
She’s got me going up and down
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Well, I got a notion, girl
That you got some suntan lotion
In that bottle of yours
Spread it all over my peelin’ skin, baby
That feels real good
All this skirt
Lappin’ up the sun
Lap me up
Why don’t you come on
And lap me up?
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Well, there goes another one
Just lying down on the sand dunes
I’d better go take a swim
And see if I can cool down a little bit
Cos you and me, woman
We got a lotta
Things on our minds
You know what I mean
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Will you just take a look over there
Where? There!
Is she tryin’ to get outta that ‘clitares?’
'Liberation for women'
That’s what I preach
Preacher man!
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Oh, shit!
There goes the ‘charabang’
Looks like I’m gonna be stuck here
The whole summer
Well, what a bummer!
Still, I can think of a lot worse places to be
Like, down in the streets
Or down in the sewer
Or even on the end of a skewer
The Stranglers Peaches Rattus Norvegicus (1977)
I promised last time I would ‘introduce you to the family,’ as another Stranglers’ song has it, in this, the second installment of my blog, but I ran out of space last time before I could even finish quoting Peaches (in full above). Because I want to write a little more about the Stranglers first, I don’t think I’ll be able to get to ‘the family’ again today either, for the same reason. So, if you’re dying to hear about my family, please, just hang in there for a little while longer.
I’m going to be quoting heavily from Stranglers’ lyrics throughout my blog because I think they were one of the greatest rock bands of the 1970s, 1980s or any decade (and didn’t conveniently fit into some popular category of the times, like ‘punk rock,’ ‘power pop,’ ‘new wave,’ ‘the new romantics,’ or even ‘pub rock,’ though they gained their first major exposure, playing in a North London pub, the ‘Hope & Anchor’ in Islington) and deserve greater recognition for their originality, intelligence and humour, even thirty years later, and even though original singer and erstwhile leader Hugh Cornwell left the group in 1990.
Thanks to the ‘bequests’ of both my uncle and my brother, I’m heavily into the music of that era. I think it’s the greatest gift anyone ever gave me, however I came by it, and in their memory I want to share it with everyone on LPSG who may not know it.
Incidentally, speaking of ‘new wave’ and ‘the new romantics,’ did you read the thread in Celebrity Endowments last week with respect to Warren Cuccurullo, one time bassist for ‘Missing Persons’ and ‘Sirhan Sirhan’… er, I mean, ‘Duran Duran?’ ‘Missing Persons’ had a song called Words, co-written by leader/drummer Terry Bozzio and Warren Cuccurullo, that I easily could have name checked in ‘Word!,’ my first blog entry. The chorus goes, as follows: ‘What are words for/ When no one listens anymore/ What are words for/ When no one listens/ What are words for/ When no one listens/ There’s no use talking at all.’
Now, Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome! Come on in! (Mel Brooks, Young Frankenstein) to my blog in the bog, Teil der Zweite, Partie la Deuxième, Part Two: The Return of Word! Die Wordier, Son of Word! AKA Too Young to Drink, but Not Too Young to Fuck…
I made fucking shit this summer, working my tight, little buns off, first as a ‘bar back’ (watch how you spell that, mister… ) in a pretentious French restaurant until I got fired, and second as a member of the grounds crew at the country club my family’s belonged to since the late 1940s, and where just about all I ever did before was play tennis and hang around the pool (the crew is basically me and a bunch of short, skinny guys from Honduras, doing things like levering/moving 1,000 lb boulders from one hazard on the fairways to another).
By the way, I’ve spent nearly every summer of my life in this predominantly gay, little beach town, beloved of painters, poets, politicians, journalists, diplomats, lobbyists, movers, shakers, retired bureaucrats and school teachers, fixers, scam artists, liars, thieves, usurers, Realtors, antique dealers, international playboys, war criminals, profiteers, lovely people, the fucking scum of the earth, the crème de la cesspool of our nation’s crapitall.
Fuck, all I ever was at the restaurant was ‘gay bait’ for the straight owners. Every time I brought a container of about 200 lbs of ice on my shoulder from the kitchen to the bar, biceps bulging in my tight, white ‘Ben Sherman’ shirt, dick bulging in my tight, black ‘Prada-type,’ waitron trousers, all conversation ceased, and heads swiveled to watch me make my hip-swiveling way in and around the tables. I could have made some real money there, I had plenty of offers, but I didn’t, mainly because I’m not a whore.
I got fired because the brothas in the kitchen, without whom the prissy French chef never could have run the place, liked me and fed me steak and lobster and Dover sole because they knew I was on a bodybuilding diet and tried to eat every two hours. It’s all right, though, I probably would have bankrupted the place in time. As it is, business fell off drastically after they got rid of me, even though the owners hired some other good looking dude to take my place, but, shit… cue the Kinks… I’m Not Like Everybody Else. I’m one of a kind.
Summer’s almost over, and I don’t think I’ve mentioned it yet, but… cue the Vengaboys and Pink Floyd… we’re going to Ibiza in late August for two weeks of windsurfing and all-night, drug-induced debauchery, me and my very hip, kewl, krazy aunt. She’s rented a ‘finca’ on Formentera, so that part’s taken care of, and meals (my aunt’s a great cook, even though the place comes with, Holy Cow! a cook and servants, I think). It also has a Hobie Cat, so I won’t have to rent one just in case there’s any wind (like, for example, a force 4+ ‘Mistral’ or ‘Scirrocco’ blowing in late August, dudes and dudettes, or another one of those totally sick, North African winds named after Maseratis and Volkswagens) and a power boat to convey us to Ibiza Town in style and drop us off at the marina (where there are a couple of big, famous clubs on the piers).
My aunt’s already got us tickets (€50 apiece!) for the 20th anniversary party at ‘Infinity,’ where she was a regular presence in the 1990s, and frankly I hope she pays for some more of what is otherwise going to be a very expensive trip for me. So far, I’ve got to pay for my plane ticket and some club-related expenses (like average €40 admissions and €12 vodka limoncellos and €10 beers!) Fuck! I figure I’ve got to come up with about $300 per-night-out when I’m on my own.
Still, that’s just how I’ll be spending the remainder of the last summer of that all-important transition year from youth/childhood/bratiness to whatever the fuck comes next… Adulthood? Maturity? Death? Shit!
That’s it for today. Catch you later! Cheers! Tell me what you think!
Strolling along
Minding my own business
Well, there goes a girl and a half
She’s got me going up and down
She’s got me going up and down
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Well, I got a notion, girl
That you got some suntan lotion
In that bottle of yours
Spread it all over my peelin’ skin, baby
That feels real good
All this skirt
Lappin’ up the sun
Lap me up
Why don’t you come on
And lap me up?
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Well, there goes another one
Just lying down on the sand dunes
I’d better go take a swim
And see if I can cool down a little bit
Cos you and me, woman
We got a lotta
Things on our minds
You know what I mean
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Will you just take a look over there
Where? There!
Is she tryin’ to get outta that ‘clitares?’
'Liberation for women'
That’s what I preach
Preacher man!
Walking on the beaches
Looking at the Peaches
Oh, shit!
There goes the ‘charabang’
Looks like I’m gonna be stuck here
The whole summer
Well, what a bummer!
Still, I can think of a lot worse places to be
Like, down in the streets
Or down in the sewer
Or even on the end of a skewer
The Stranglers Peaches Rattus Norvegicus (1977)
I promised last time I would ‘introduce you to the family,’ as another Stranglers’ song has it, in this, the second installment of my blog, but I ran out of space last time before I could even finish quoting Peaches (in full above). Because I want to write a little more about the Stranglers first, I don’t think I’ll be able to get to ‘the family’ again today either, for the same reason. So, if you’re dying to hear about my family, please, just hang in there for a little while longer.
I’m going to be quoting heavily from Stranglers’ lyrics throughout my blog because I think they were one of the greatest rock bands of the 1970s, 1980s or any decade (and didn’t conveniently fit into some popular category of the times, like ‘punk rock,’ ‘power pop,’ ‘new wave,’ ‘the new romantics,’ or even ‘pub rock,’ though they gained their first major exposure, playing in a North London pub, the ‘Hope & Anchor’ in Islington) and deserve greater recognition for their originality, intelligence and humour, even thirty years later, and even though original singer and erstwhile leader Hugh Cornwell left the group in 1990.
Thanks to the ‘bequests’ of both my uncle and my brother, I’m heavily into the music of that era. I think it’s the greatest gift anyone ever gave me, however I came by it, and in their memory I want to share it with everyone on LPSG who may not know it.
Incidentally, speaking of ‘new wave’ and ‘the new romantics,’ did you read the thread in Celebrity Endowments last week with respect to Warren Cuccurullo, one time bassist for ‘Missing Persons’ and ‘Sirhan Sirhan’… er, I mean, ‘Duran Duran?’ ‘Missing Persons’ had a song called Words, co-written by leader/drummer Terry Bozzio and Warren Cuccurullo, that I easily could have name checked in ‘Word!,’ my first blog entry. The chorus goes, as follows: ‘What are words for/ When no one listens anymore/ What are words for/ When no one listens/ What are words for/ When no one listens/ There’s no use talking at all.’
Now, Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome! Come on in! (Mel Brooks, Young Frankenstein) to my blog in the bog, Teil der Zweite, Partie la Deuxième, Part Two: The Return of Word! Die Wordier, Son of Word! AKA Too Young to Drink, but Not Too Young to Fuck…
I made fucking shit this summer, working my tight, little buns off, first as a ‘bar back’ (watch how you spell that, mister… ) in a pretentious French restaurant until I got fired, and second as a member of the grounds crew at the country club my family’s belonged to since the late 1940s, and where just about all I ever did before was play tennis and hang around the pool (the crew is basically me and a bunch of short, skinny guys from Honduras, doing things like levering/moving 1,000 lb boulders from one hazard on the fairways to another).
By the way, I’ve spent nearly every summer of my life in this predominantly gay, little beach town, beloved of painters, poets, politicians, journalists, diplomats, lobbyists, movers, shakers, retired bureaucrats and school teachers, fixers, scam artists, liars, thieves, usurers, Realtors, antique dealers, international playboys, war criminals, profiteers, lovely people, the fucking scum of the earth, the crème de la cesspool of our nation’s crapitall.
Fuck, all I ever was at the restaurant was ‘gay bait’ for the straight owners. Every time I brought a container of about 200 lbs of ice on my shoulder from the kitchen to the bar, biceps bulging in my tight, white ‘Ben Sherman’ shirt, dick bulging in my tight, black ‘Prada-type,’ waitron trousers, all conversation ceased, and heads swiveled to watch me make my hip-swiveling way in and around the tables. I could have made some real money there, I had plenty of offers, but I didn’t, mainly because I’m not a whore.
I got fired because the brothas in the kitchen, without whom the prissy French chef never could have run the place, liked me and fed me steak and lobster and Dover sole because they knew I was on a bodybuilding diet and tried to eat every two hours. It’s all right, though, I probably would have bankrupted the place in time. As it is, business fell off drastically after they got rid of me, even though the owners hired some other good looking dude to take my place, but, shit… cue the Kinks… I’m Not Like Everybody Else. I’m one of a kind.
Summer’s almost over, and I don’t think I’ve mentioned it yet, but… cue the Vengaboys and Pink Floyd… we’re going to Ibiza in late August for two weeks of windsurfing and all-night, drug-induced debauchery, me and my very hip, kewl, krazy aunt. She’s rented a ‘finca’ on Formentera, so that part’s taken care of, and meals (my aunt’s a great cook, even though the place comes with, Holy Cow! a cook and servants, I think). It also has a Hobie Cat, so I won’t have to rent one just in case there’s any wind (like, for example, a force 4+ ‘Mistral’ or ‘Scirrocco’ blowing in late August, dudes and dudettes, or another one of those totally sick, North African winds named after Maseratis and Volkswagens) and a power boat to convey us to Ibiza Town in style and drop us off at the marina (where there are a couple of big, famous clubs on the piers).
My aunt’s already got us tickets (€50 apiece!) for the 20th anniversary party at ‘Infinity,’ where she was a regular presence in the 1990s, and frankly I hope she pays for some more of what is otherwise going to be a very expensive trip for me. So far, I’ve got to pay for my plane ticket and some club-related expenses (like average €40 admissions and €12 vodka limoncellos and €10 beers!) Fuck! I figure I’ve got to come up with about $300 per-night-out when I’m on my own.
Still, that’s just how I’ll be spending the remainder of the last summer of that all-important transition year from youth/childhood/bratiness to whatever the fuck comes next… Adulthood? Maturity? Death? Shit!
That’s it for today. Catch you later! Cheers! Tell me what you think!
