Head on my shoulders is whispering in my ear, "You know we git more sophisticated every year. It's too dang bad we don't git any less stupider." --"Secure Mellow Rapture" by Luther Limbolust, 1981
Stumped-No-More the fearless fiddler had no legs nor arms. So, strings stretched twixt his steamy stumps, bow clenched twixt rotting happy jaws, he played like he was getting paid. Now what do you think about that? I stumbled innocently upon old Stumped-No-More in a ghost town one fine day, drawn by tones that spoke of no such home for no such dream. Sun beat, dust blowed, Stumped-No-More the fearless fiddler was apparently just warming up. Knowing that uncalled-for babble has been known to draw two loves to battle, I neither spoke nor breathed as song crouched on and sank claws into my skull. I love small talk. Bullshitting about nothing turns me on, but I managed to refrain. Sounds I've heard ever since my decision-making center settled me on physical terrain, but I knew as Stumped-No-More scraped away that ordinary sound waves, heretofore interpreted as noise, truth, or music were as far removed from the potential of bliss as pleasure is from pain. Now what do you think about that?
Do the right thing and don’t do the wrong thing. Oh boy, what a plan! What you need to make you happy... Mama never said you could have that. You want permission to be happy? Wanna try real hard to get there? Beat your head against the wall? Go ahead, that's what it's there for. Feel like hell, what's there to lose? Blame your hopeless situation on the morning news. Whatever justifiability my fears think they can claim for their existence, still their absence would make life boring so I chase my tail to keep my eyes bright. And make for greener pastures, and wind up in a ditch there, badmouthing everything that happens, "Oh what an awful life! You can’t depend on nothing! Guess I should be content with boredom." But say, what's this? It's a fight in my insides, it's getting way out of hand now. My heart's in my gut and my head's up my butt, and I can't get them out. Little bit of chitter-chatter plugging up my brain, I can't get it all figured out. My life and my mind are in the same cardboard box, it's all just something to talk about. Then I see a bright light before me, the mists of time have burned away. The rules were made just to be broken, so get off your ass, it's time to play. You want a medal for being unhappy? You sadomasochistic whiner, trying to say you're not having fun. Don't just sit there with a hard-on, get a grip, it's not too big. To prove that life is not a nightmare, don't be such a pig, don't count what you give, start with where you live.
Baby do you feel good? I know why. You got a boyfriend up in the sky Jesus makes you feel like you did when you were five, sitting at your daddy's side exchanging glances. God, if I was God, I'd feel so goddam fine. You'd be making love to me all of the time. You could make me feel like Jesus if you tried. If I'm not careful, I might end up crucified. Woke up feeling like a super guy. Every one who looked at me just started to cry, knowing they'd never be as super as me made them as jealous as they could be. Opened my mouth at a quarter till ten. Lost all my friends before I shut it again. First thing I notice when my eyes come back in focus, coming off the wall at me, your standard hocus-pocus. Baby, if you tried, you might just find something you like, but you're too busy seeing through everything in sight. If you could let yourself be stupider, you'd be happy by and by. You're smart, you're smart, you're smart, too bad I’m only human.
Clock tells us when to collapse in bed at night. Clock tells us when to resume our daily fight Clock makes us think we're running out of fun. Clock asphyxiates us when the day is done. We're a hundred fifty million people with jobs that make us smile, doing things for money just to stay alive a while, gladly looking forward to the day we can retire, and stop pretending we're not senile. Head on my shoulders is whispering in my ear, "You know we get more sophisticated every year. It's too dang bad we don't get any less stupider" I hate to admit it, but maybe on the whole, driving in my auto keeps my jitters in control. And if it wasn't for my mission at the five-and-ten, I'm afraid my little world might never roll again. So I gotta get a move on, or I'll be late to work. I am a dimestore manager. It's hard to make a living in the land of the berserk, but you gotta look smart while the planet's still turning. Morning clones are streaming in to wander in the aisles. Even if it blows they're gonna go their way in style. Makes me feel useful to keep them satisfied. We're all aglow with secure mellow rapture.
What's that? What's that? What's that? What's that? What's what? What's what? What's what? What's what? That? Oh that? Oh that? Oh that? That's air! That's air! That's air! That's air! Is it real? Is it real? Is it real? Is it real? Does it feel? Does it feel? Does it feel? Does it feel? What does it feel? What does it feel? What does it feel? What does it feel? Whatchacall! Whatchacall! Whatchacall! Whatchacall! Can you touch it, can you stroke it, can you fear it, can you know it, or are you just another American consumer on stampede? Atmosphere, that's what I fear, it's a suicide dance. Whatcha gonna do when the air comes down, up to your knees with your head in the ground, buried in the sand with your legs floppin' 'round, whatcha gonna do when the air comes down? You can think about it, read about it, dream about it, sneeze about it, spew it, spout it, mouth it, laugh it right outta the picture, but you just can't make it go away! Atmosphere, that's what I fear, it's a suicide dance. It's a dance, it's a dance, it's a suicide dance. We guzzle on and on and on and on our funeral path. How do ya know, how do ya tell, how do ya know you're not in hell, how do ya smell the roses on the way? Atmosphere, that's what I fear, it's a suicide dance. Whatcha gonna do with the poison that you've pumped? There's nothing pending but the ending, it's a plan in which you're stuck. You'll never break this commitment, not with your kind of luck. Whatcha gonna do when you've already jumped? So get your gas mask! Get your seeing eye dog! This is serious! Don't send your kids out there! We'll be buying breathing air from the boys that brought us smog, there's got to be a change of personnel! Atmosphere, that's what I fear, it's a suicide dance.
[1st melody:] 1. A man without a fart is a man without a heart. A man without a heart is a man without a mission. A man without a mission is a man without a plan. A man without a plan is a man without a vision. A man without a vision is a man without a goal in life. A man without a goal in life is subject to whatever impending disaster happens to come fluttering his way. That's his excuse, that's his routine. 2. That's his own little way of achieving massturbation. That's right, achieving--achieving massturbation. Achieving what you say? Achieving massturbation? If I gotta achieve anyway, then why can't I get paid to do what I do anyway, do what I do best, do what feels the best to me in my particular situation? [Chorus:] Smoke another cigarette--achieve massturbation. Watch another TV show--achieve massturbation. Make sure my nose is clean--achieve massturbation. Put a tiger in my tank--achieve massturbation. There went another one, achieving massturbation. There went another one, achieving massturbation. 3. Sometime after the first explosion, having somehow survived its disastrous effects, I look up, wipe the ashes off my face. I'm not yet threatened with immediate extinction, so I might as well take out time while I still have time to spend, and [repeat Chorus] 4. How much longer can I keep on getting real at my present rate of acceleration before I cease existing in this universe at all? Is it worth it? Why not? It's the saddle that fits my back. Is it worth it? Why not? It's the saddle that fits my back. 5. I feel sorry for anybody who doesn't live on the streets of the city, who has to rely on the news media for their information on just how fast things really are sliding. 6. I don't mind being a genius, doesn't bother me a bit. I just can't figure out why no one wants to listen to me. Could it be I'm being too abrasive? Could it be I'm achieving massturbation? 7. Now where'd I put my nose? It's on your face, it's on your face. It's gotta be here somewhere. It's on your face, it's on your face. Now where could I have lost it? It's on your face, it's on your face. I must've put it in some stupid dang place. 8. AH, the regular singing of our bowels! Orgasm, the bodacious real fart... [2nd melody:] 1. The pull of pain to connect, to gralthify a miruvorning vroombelleration. Even though it might catapult me right into the, into the middle of the whole bag of worms. 2. The only twist of reality that untwists just right, just enough, leaving only the spring quivering, hovering, lurking, leaking and spilling where it wants to. 3. And pulling from a black, unnameable blemish on the universe. It gets in your, gets in your blind spot, and dances there, pulling, pulling... [1st melody:] 9. Well, everything has its place, and the outcome, you can name it, but you can't call it names or it goes away, so... Death doctor, Thank You! for offering to kill me. (3x) For being twisted. (4x) Name me assassins! (3x) a-s-s-a-s-s-i-n (4x)
Now it's time to talk about your old habits. They call you up just to let you down. They say they've got just what you need, and you get there to find it's just air in their mouth. As if they knew just what you needed, just because they think they've known you for years. But what are years to lying fools? The passing time just teaches them the art of deception. Comfortable in their know-it-all game plan, they manufacture their own brand of misconception. Once I had a friend named Batanwa Jim. I called him up and told him to come on out to Portland. When he got out there, I wasn't in the mood to talk to him, and now that man is dead as a doornail. So next time you decide you've found the magic formula, and you think that all your friends should know it, write it all down and mail it to yourself, and then you'll know, then you'll know, then you'll know.
Bemused and dismayed to think that yesterday I had it made, scooping scum out of the itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy rich folks' yard. It isn't too hard. Once you’ve got the tools they're gonna change all the rules. If shoveling shit isn't it, you can always go someplace else and shovel shit. It's a prison planet! You wouldn't be here unless you’d been up in heaven and couldn't handle it. If you don't dig it then how come you're always down there in the mud just diggin' it? I don’t give a shit! I don’t wanna hear about where you’ve been or what you did. So shut up! And get an itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy tiny whiny— —life is just a masquerade of no one in particular rearranging empty shelves, infinitum predicular. What I’m saying, if you could hear me, is, "Don’t let it get you, but don’t hide so near me." Cute little elf said, "Beware the monster hiding on the empty shelf." When I bent over, the elf stole my wallet and headed for the door. Boy was I pissed. I looked the monster in the eye and told him I was pissed. The monster opened up his slathery, slimy mouth and said: "Give us a break! We only chase you 'cause you run the other way." I guess the universe ain't broken after all.
We are animals. Animals. Irresponsible actions of an electrical storm and a couple quadrillion anonymous chemical reactions. That's what we are, that's what we are, that's what we are now. Animals, in the flow of somebody's cruel cosmic joke. We're mistakes. Cosmic mistakes. It really could never have happened like this twice in a row, so why did it ever have to happen at all now. Just tell me that, just tell me that, just tell me that, and then you'll be my favorite mistake, and we'll dance down that suction highway paw in paw. Think I'll kill myself. Kill myself. Irresponsible actions of an innocent few, a couple of victims like me--if only they knew how it feels. They're killing me, they're killing me, they're killing me, and when I die, I'll be dead, and my atoms will disperse and influence other atoms like themselves.
Standing in a circle with the others, looking for something to do with my hands, playing hide-and-seek with a storm of eyes, hiding in the woodwork between gazes, hiding in the spaces between faces, while I wonder what they're thinking about me, wonder why they act like they like me, hope I didn't say something stupid. I'm embarrassed to exist... I'm embarrassed to exist. I'm embarrassed to be noticed doing nothing. I'm embarrassed to be noticed doing anything. I'm embarrassed to be noticed at all. When those little black holes in their eyes turn my way, I realize it was always there but it's always a surprise, embarrassment is basic to the human enterprise. How would you feel if your mind gave way, and you acted like an ass in a public place? Embarrassed. And how would you feel if you lost your cool, and you stood there shaking like a goldarn fool? Embarrassed. All I need is a little time to pick the right words and put them in a line that'll answer any question at any time, so I won't have to interact with other humans, I'll no longer have to think how to respond. They can paw me with their questions all they want. 'Cause I'm safe and sound with my new-found phrase, immune from questions in every way, only trouble is I noticed today. I'm still embarrassed to exist... I'm still embarrassed to exist... I'm embarrassed to be noticed doing nothing. I'm embarrassed to be noticed doing anything. I'm embarrassed to be noticed at all. When those little black holes in their eyes turn my way I realize, it was always there but it's always a surprise, embarrassment is basic to the human enterprise. Well I might look like I mean it but my mind's on something else. I found invisibility by repeating something false: I'm sorry. And I blend into the woodwork with my little magic words. I could've thought of better ones, but I was in a hurry. I'm sorry.
sung to the tune of The Beverly Hillbillies theme song "Ballad of Jed Clampett", music by Paul Henning
(video)Here's a little ditty 'bout some big billionaires, had a greedy little problem with puttin' on airs. They sold a bunch of mortgages that weren't worth dip, and they made a bunch of yuppies think that they were really hip. Cool that is, too cool for school. Well the first thing you know we're all a-riding on a wave, except for folks like me that nobody could save, but it doesn't really matter, cuz no one gives a duck 'bout a washed-up old hippie a-livin' in his truck. With dogs, that is. Two of them, Max and Lila. So everyone became a happy debt slave, grinnin' and a grinnin' while we dig our own grave. 'Cause believe it or not, we just did what we were told, always denying that our souls had been sold. Down the river, that is. With credit cards. And then one day we awoke from our feast, to find ourselves starin' down the mouth of the beast. Even lots of patriots don't understand yet the consequence of fritterin' and goin' into debt. Usury that is. Big bucks for no work. Well I be damned if it didn't come out right. There's not a greenback dollar anywhere in sight. 'Cause the laws of physics says, only God can create, so you'll have to be happy with what's on your plate. Bail-out, that is. Bail your self out! Its time to say good-bye to some greedy billionaires. 99% thinks they oughta play fair. So we're standing in the way puttin' down our foot, and we won’t be moved till common causes take root. For everybody. There's so much abundance. Enough for us too, and they can still be rich!