There it is again…

I’m not really the type of person who looks for signs or stuff like that.  But I do try to listen to what the universe seems to be telling me.  Since I believe that we, as people, are interconnected in numerous ways, I do subscribe to the idea that synchronicity exists and is at work in our lives.  I’ve written about that before.  When things aren’t going all that great, it’s easy forget that these connections exist so sometimes we need a kick in the butt to get us paying attention again…

January/February is not my favourite time of the year.  In addition to the polar vortices (anyone else getting completely sick of the overuse of that particular hysterical buzz term, or is it just me?) of biblical proportions (it’s freakin’ cold out there again today) and a distinct lack of sunlight, I find that my brain tends to slow into hibernation mode- and likewise isn’t up for much in the way of social interaction or, to be frank, productivity.

Winter blahs to the nth degree.

So, given the usual late-January ick factor, yesterday was an unusual day.  I was productive at work- despite the fact that I needed those fingerless gloves (think Bob Cratchit at work in any theatrical/filmed version of A Christmas Carol) to effectively type the regular daily correspondence (wearing them today, too.  Polar vortex, you suuuuuuck) and feeling like was I getting somewhere with a few things on the new job-search front, so the fact that I have been feeling a little less-than-myself, and not particularly inclined to write stuff lately, was less wearing and seasonal-affective-disorder-triggering than it has been.

Before I left work I got an email from a dear friend regarding an in-the-works CBC radio story on a topic close to my heart.  The one I wrote about here.  This friend gave the producer my name to possibly have a chat about my experience with and perspective on the whole thing.  Interesting, indeed.

I headed home on the TTC, grabbing the first bus that showed up so as to not have to stand in the cold for long.  Mistake there.  That first bus took me not to a nice, warm subway station where I could get on a nice, warm subway, but to a streetcar line.  Which would be fine.  In reasonable weather.  But it seems as though the streetcar lines don’t play nicely with polar vortices, so the connecting streetcar (which was there right when I got off the bus- THAT never happens) was going nowhere.  Which also meant that all the streetcars that showed up after it were also going nowhere (given that they all use the same tracks).  There were lots and lots and lots of people exiting streetcars with nowhere really to go.  Instead of waiting around for shuttle buses to start arriving, I started walking.

Toronto is a great town for walking.  Normally.  The downtown wind tunnels when the wind chill is making it feel like -30+ degrees Celsius?  Nope.  Not fun.  Not great at ALL.

But, once I was committed, I walked.  The rest of the way home.  After a few blocks I could have hopped a subway but I have this stupid stubborn streak that, MetroPass notwithstanding, makes me feel lazy or something if I take public transportation for a minimal distance.  One subway stop?  Silly.  In January with brutal wind chill?  That might have been the more prudent option, actually.

Point of all this?  I was walking past things I wouldn’t normally be walking past- if I’d taken a more sensible route from here to there/there to here.  I stopped in for a coffee partway- it warmed my hands, even if it burned my tongue- that helped make the last few long city blocks survivable.  Liquid warmth clutched in mittened hands, I cut through the courtyards between buildings and found myself beside the venerable CBC MotherShip itself. 

Just as this song came on the Shuffle Daemon:

Followed by:

and then:

Once home and (somewhat) thawed out, I got to thinking about the opportunity to share my two cents (which is what I do hereabouts, after all), having my voice heard by some who might not otherwise hear it, and the potential positive outcomes that such an opportunity might bring.  I’m certainly not counting chickens- opportunities aren’t always realized, after all- but there seem to be some things moving in my little section of the universe.  And even the barest hint of a whisper can sometimes, if properly nurtured, lead to the necessary volume required to affect change.

I also realized that it was six years ago this week that I defended the thesis that earned me the title of PhD.  Achieving that designation has taken me down a number of paths- and none of them are the one on which I thought I’d be traveling.  This, I realized, is okay.  Knowledge and experiences are never wasteful- and should never be wasted.

Even with the lassitude that winter always seems to instill in me, I’ve started 2014 with the intent to bring about change.  For myself in my own life, and in matters that will contribute to changes in my wider community and world.  I’m still working out strategies.

But….

I’m on my way to City Hall tonight to attend a ‘how to become a candidate’ meeting in the Council Chamber (yes, that famous site of so much of the recent press attention our ‘mayor’ has brought upon us.  I can’t even think about the latest escapade.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll be ready to talk about it.  Although I’m sure it will be well-covered by Jon Stewart, so not sure I should bother).  Not because I’m thinking of running- at this time, anyway- but because I’m genuinely interested in learning about how the process works and the steps required to declare and then pursue candidacy for municipal office.

Basically, I’m doing things and looking forward.  Which, when it’s cold and dark and the News keeps getting on my nerves (there was that speech the PM gave in Israel too.  Was going to write about that… We’ll see.), is nothing to sneeze at (there is more than enough sneezing going around here, surrounded, as I am, by people who SHOULD be at home, in bed, with the flu).

Well, my soul checked out missing as I sat listening

To the hours and minutes tickin’ away

Yeah, just sittin’ around waitin’ for my life to begin

While it was all just slippin’ away

Well I’m tired of waitin’ for tomorrow to come

Or that train to come roarin’ ’round the bend…

There WILL be better days.  I’m doing what I can to expand the reach of my small voice.

Have to keep that in mind.

‘We might still have a way to go’

December.  Already.  How did that happen?

It seems that the New Year arrives more and more quickly with each one that passes.  I swear, it feels like it was August just two weeks ago.  And I am brutally behind in just about everything I turn my hand to these days.

I did manage to complete my personal NaNoWriMo challenge.  Finished with 52 768 words as of November 30, 2013.  I didn’t actually participate in any of the local events or conversations or communal support- really I just used their word counter as a way of marking progress.  I discovered that I can, in fact, get that much written in a month (I actually wrote more than those 50-some-thousand words, given the fact that I did manage some posts here at colemining as well), even if the final 30-day count has not necessarily brought me that much closer to completion of the project.  There is still a lot of story to be told, and the organization, editing and substantial re-writes is the next hurdle to overcome, but the characters are beginning to develop nicely, and the story progression is reasonably mapped, so progress was made.

It’s nice to know that I can still set a goal which can be met, even while keeping up with the rest of my responsibilities.  So yay for me.  A side effect of all that productivity is that I can step back for a bit, and I do have to say I’m glad that I can take a bit of a break from that particular outlet to give me some time to view it with fresh eyes.

As we rush headlong into the holiday season I am realizing, as is usually the case, that for the next few weeks there will not be enough hours in the day.  Feeling pulled in all these different directions was making me more than a little irritable over the weekend (despite having attended an incredible American Thanksgiving dinner in friends’ new and wonderful home on Saturday- great food, fantastic company- good times indeed).

This irritability was not helped AT ALL by the fact that city was locked in gridlock- were you foolish enough to attempt to drive anywhere- while the TTC seemed to be operating on some arcane schedule that required initiation into some sort of transportation cabal if you actually wanted to know when a streetcar might actually arrive- and not randomly change route numbers or short turn to nowhere on the whim of some Grand Poobah of the Red Rocket.  And don’t get me started on the road closures to accommodate the Buffalo Bills being in town…

Jebus.

‘Grouchy Cole’ is not my favourite character manifestation.

Starting the work week- with deadlines looming and conflict in the workplace- hasn’t helped to dissipate the negative vibes, so I’ve had to look for some external sources of inspiration to get me back on track and looking forward with anticipation rather than anxiety.

This guy.

I picked up the book over a week ago (after first learning of its existence months ago) and, under normal circumstances, would have had it long devoured by this point.  It’s representative of my two very favourite things, after all- music and story (and storytellers).

Shamefully it has taken me this long to write about Ray’s wonderful memoir- using his tours of the US as the core and starting point for his story.  In his lyrical style (everything the guy writes sounds like his music- conversational yet clever, and as if there is a subtle background riff that has been familiar forever supporting his thoughts and emotions as they ring off of the page), he tells the story of life on the road- through the early lean years with the Kinks, and, more recently, as he attempted to rediscover/remake himself in his own image as a solo artist.

First off, I have to say that apparently I was sleeping in 2004, since I had no idea at all that he had been shot.  Believe me, if I had heard a news report that someone raised a gun at Ray Davies in New Orleans, I would have recalled it in the way that those who remember JFK’s assassination can tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing.

He looms that largely in my life.

And this book has just reinforced that presence.  Seriously.  It was hard to keep reading because there was just so much inspiration being thrown at me on each and every single page.  I was itching to take that inspiration on board and get back to work.

Although they were part of the British Invasion of the 1960’s, the Kinks have never held the same place in the North American popular imagination of those days as the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.  There are reasons for this- some of which Ray discusses over the course of Americana– but I think he nails it quite concisely remarking that, as a lyricist, in those early years he was unwilling to play at being anything other than himself- a working class lad from suburban London, who never lost his accent or stopped singing about things that resonated with him, personally.  Regardless of how inexplicable such things might be to an American audience.  The Kinks remained true to their roots, and, especially in their early years, their songs were very reflective of their native environment.

Still, as a child, Ray romanticized the US, based in impressions gleaned from Hollywood and music that spoke of roots and depth of connection to places that were foreign in every manner of speaking from his own life experience.  As their following grew, and again after the break-up of the Kinks, he sought out those roots in an effort to figure out the next directions his creativity might take.

Shifting between recollections of the early tours- painfully recalling the loneliness and boredom of time on the road- and moving forward, in his personal and professional lives, Ray offers insights into his creative process that are at once illuminating and daunting.  Here is a guy with no formal musical training- beyond the fact that he has been playing and writing songs since he was a teenager- who has created a catalogue of some of the most memorable characters and stories in popular music.

He tells the stories of the nascence of songs like this one:

It talks about the tension- ever-present since the band began- between Ray and his little bro’, Dave, and the decision to keep the band together despite the sometimes seeming irrelevance of rock ‘n’ roll.  He created the character of ‘Dan the fan’ to illustrate the impact that music has, even against the backdrop of the time- and the death of Elvis Presley (which came the day after the insomnia that saw the seeds of the song first-formed).  It is a personal and cultural marker of time and place.  We’ve had the song for decades, but to someone like me- for whom story and its creation is an endless source of fascination and wonder- reading about how the song came to be is a new gift to be savoured.

The Shuffle Daemon hasn’t been shuffling anything other than Kinks and/or Ray Davies tunes as I wend my way through his written words.  As Ray revisited his process and the events that spoke to the process, I listened to the songs that resulted, rediscovering old favourites, or hearing those that didn’t top my personal pops in a new light which added a level of appreciation.

This one retains relevance to a prescient degree:

I switched on the radio and nearly dropped dead

The news was so bad that I fell out of bed

There was a gas strike, oil strike, lorry strike, bread strike

Got to be a superman to survive

Gas bills, rent bills, tax bills, phone bills

I’m such a wreck but I’m staying alive…

I’d really like to change the world

And save it from the mess it’s in…

Ray writes so well and so prolifically, it is hard to imagine that he has experienced writers’ block of any kind.  But he has.  And since this is the bane of the existence of any and all those who dare to self-describe as creative-types, knowing that the feeling affects a master of his caliber helps us mere mortals feel a little reassured…

‘In a creatively non-productive phase, my body almost mirrors my emotional state and I can become uncoordinated and risk to myself and others as I bump into tables and walk into closing doors.  When it gets like this I forget which side of the Atlantic I am on.  I invariably trip up on the pavement, drive on the wrong side of the road, and generally become a danger to anyone who happens to be walking near me.  I become a cause for concern among all those who care for me… Sometimes the inspiration gene kicks in early in the morning like a randy rooster crowing a new beat.  That’s the time when it’s important to start writing.  When the dum-dum explodes it is usually accompanied in my head by the ‘William Tell’ overture, that tells me I have to write- which I do at maniacal speed, stopping only in response to exhaustion or physical pain.  A period of nonproductivity, on the other hand, can sometimes necessitate a jug of coffee before I can even put on my dressing gown and get out of bed.  That’s the creative curse.’  (pg. 150-151)

Destroyer is, in many ways- in my opinion anyway- the ultimate Kinks song.  Combining the instantly recognizable riff from All Day and All of the Night and the reappearance of that inimitable character, Lola, it’s about self-destruction as a result of self-involvement.

Silly boy you got so much to live for
So much to aim for, so much to try for
You blowing it all with paranoia
You’re so insecure you self-destroyer..

Self-destroyer, wreck your health
Destroy friends, destroy yourself
The time device of self-destruction
Light the fuse and start eruption

Over the past week and a bit, as I’ve worked to complete a self-imposed exercise in productivity- one that leaves me filled with vacillating analyses ranging between ‘that’s pretty good’ and ‘oh man, does THAT ever suck rocks’- Ray has provided some illumination and even a kick in the pants or two and helped to draw me back into focus.  And helped me regain some of the optimism that is generally second nature, but which has been missing in action over the last while.

He remains a work in progress- one who is still (at almost 70 years of age) producing works filled with inspiration and enduring characters.  He went searching for himself in an America that was partly an amalgam of the pictures in his head, and found out a whole lot about himself in the process.  Americana seems to have provided him with some perspective- and it has provided me with endless moments of delight.  That I will certainly revisit over and over- the way I need to keep listening to his music.

As he notes in the epilogue: ‘Songs are like friends who comfort you so you don’t feel alone.  Believe in them hard enough and they come true.’ (pg. 296).

With that bit of wisdom, I can’t help but agree- wholeheartedly- and look forward, with hope, for a day when I can believe in my own creations enough that they, in turn, become realized enough that they might just one day befriend someone the way his music and lyrics have been constant companions to me for years and years (and years…).

I could go on (how did this creep up to almost 2000 words?!?  Although many of them are Ray’s…), but will instead recommend that you check out the book for yourself.  Spending time with old friends is always good- especially at this time of year.

Cheers, Ray.

’tis the season

Trust me, I am reallyreally not one for in ANY way supporting the whole ‘Xmas begins as soon as the Hallowe’en candy is put on sale’ thing.  I think it’s especially shameful when stores and the like start putting up decorations before Remembrance Day.  Don’t like that at all.  Respect for our veterans should not be too much to ask.

It’s only November 22.  I have yet to do anything as my token nod to the season- as far as shopping/decorating/cooking/baking goes.  That will likely start next weekend (a couple of friends always host an American Thanksgiving dinner and I will be bringing dessert)- although, other than the baking (which I do kind of love.  Most of the time) I’m not sure I’m looking forward to the preparations all that much.

Partly because the decorative stuff is all in storage, which necessitates a trip to the storage place to get it all, and then another trip out there to return the empty boxes…

All right.  I’m being lazy.  I get that.  I could make excuses about the residual effects of the move, being behind in the proactive searching for employment, NaNoWriMo (closing in on 40 ooo words- even if the story isn’t even half told), this cold I can’t shake (seriously- week two and counting)… But honestly?  I think that the real reason I’m not feeling a whole lot of the old peace on earth/good will toward fellow humans thing right now has to do with the build up of cynicism and existential despair that current events have instilled down deep in the very core of my being.

But.

Over the last couple of days I’ve seen a bunch of posts suggesting attempts at rediscovering some joy amongst the jaded negativity that seems to be prevalent lately.  My blogging bud, Beth Byrnes, spoke about her attempts to change the course of recent spates of judge-y behaviours, including some seasonally-inspired therapy in the form of light-hearted Hallmark movies.

I had to agree that one of my personal favourite things about this time of year is the annual showings of wonderful feel-good classic films.  It’s a Wonderful Life, the original Miracle on 34th Street (seriously, who is more beautiful than Maureen O’Hara?), the Sound of Music (and I’m NOT talking about some new-fangled live version with some country star- Julie Andrews IS Maria, and Canadian treasure Christopher Plummer IS Georg.  That’s all I have to say about that), and even newer films like Elf (how do you not LOVE Will Farrell in that role?  And Bob Newhart- and Mr. Grant as SANTA?) and Love Actually (fave ensemble cast film in years) really contribute to the overall suspension of Scroogery- even in the face of political skullduggery run rampant and the disasters (natural and otherwise) that seem to be affecting the world with increasing regularity.

This is use of story– and enduring characters- at its most wonderful.  When a time-tested tale can generate viewership- across generations, beliefs and borders of all kinds- and allow a little bit of hope for the realization of goodness to creep into the day-to-day… That’s kind of freakin miraculous.

So today I took my first step on the road to some celebrating of the season.  First annual tradition well on its way?  Check!

I picked up our tickets to the annual Skydiggers Xmas show at the Horseshoe Tavern (which I referenced here, when discussing some of our city’s FANTASTIC live music venues) this evening.  Every December- for years beyond counting- a group of us (the core remains the same but we welcome additions/cast changes dependent on circumstances- including inclement weather or last minute cancellations) have gathered to see these Toronto stalwarts- and whomever else might be floating around and wanting to play a song or two- sing their classic tunes and share a little holiday cheer.

The show feels like a visit with family.  The band has been a fixture in my life since forever it seems (1988, anyway).  I have seen them in any number of venues, in any number of cities (and on subway platforms- ran into Andy on Hallowe’en, actually) over the years, but the Xmas show at the ‘Shoe is a traditional gathering that can’t be missed.  Be assured that there will be more on this topic once the show actually happens.

If you’re going to be in Toronto the weekend of December 20th and 21st, come on over and join us.  Well worth the price of admission.  And I’m sure that Andy (and frequent guest/collaborator, the Member of Parliament for Davenport, Andrew Cash) will have some insightful commentary on our current political scandals, in case you’re looking for more of that sort of thing.  We’ll be set up by the sound dude, drinking 50 (the one time of year THAT happens.  Horrible beer.  But part of the tradition), if you want to come say hello.

I left Soundscapes (my fave record store and source of tickets in town), not only with the tickets that were the focus of the trip, but with a copy of Ray Davies’ new book Americana (finally picked it up- after finding out about it MONTHS ago). DOUBLE SCORE!

Since it is (for now) unseasonably warm, and since I was feeling somewhat energized for the first time in weeks, I decided that a walk was in order.  The winter will arrive in earnest soon enough.

Strolling back along College, then through Kensington and down Spadina, past the venue itself (which waits, like a loyal friend, for our appearance in a few weeks), then through the ED (long before the arrival of all the 905ers) and down toward that giant spire in the sky (lit up in red tonight), I remembered just how much I LOVE this town.

Recent events have cast us in a darker light- and created some of that angst I was talking about.  But Toronto remains a great place to live.  Our downtown core on a Friday evening is alive with people moving about- setting plans for the evening, heading to dinner/after work drinks, picking up groceries (or bubble tea, or a slice of pizza), and doing some early holiday shopping.

I could almost feel the gently falling (hopefully gently falling– 5 years ago it took hours to get home after a couple of feet of white stuff fell on the city while we were inside singing along) snow that will likely set the scene outside on Queen Street in a few weeks, as we begin to really ring in the season, with some of my favourite peeps in the widewide world.

I let the Shuffle Daemon set the playlist, and he (she?  It?) didn’t disappoint.

Forgot how much I love that video.

A steamy Skydiggers song- memories of summer AND of Xmas shows past.

Another song about the heat of summer- and levies and such- but a FANTASTIC tune about walking about kind of aimlessly yet winding up in the same places again and again.

The Daemon seemed determined to evoke warmth (holidays and ice cream and such)- perhaps knowing what’s forecast to arrive this weekend (plummeting temperatures and snow).  I think it’s trying to tell me that summer WILL come ’round again… Gotta love The Beat, regardless of season.

Now THAT’s a weekend-starting song, if I ever heard one.  And love the classic MTV clip at the start.  I DARE you not to smile.

After a long absence, Genesis has been popping up on the SD a lot lately. 

Some bitter-sweetness here.  Michael Hutchence died 16 years ago today.  A definite waste- of talent and promise.  But he left us with songs like this…

With these songs echoing through the headphones, a Skydiggers reunion to look forward to, a great book to read, and a football game (a Canadian football championship) to watch on Sunday (notwithstanding the fact that the hometown Argos were jinxed by the halftime arrival of someone who shall remain nameless.  What the hell.  Oskee Wee Wee or whatever.  Ontario is still there to represent.  Go Ticats.  I suppose), I’m starting the weekend with a happier outlook than has been the norm of late.

I’m thinking that it will be an unplugged weekend (except for the writing I want to get done), so the tv will remain off (suggestions from Genesis notwithstanding) and the news groups will remain unchecked.  The world can carry on without my input for a couple of days.

Bring on the holidays.  I think I just might be ready to face the madness.

Bon weekend!

Cleansing the Palate

It might just be me, but I’m finding the interworld a pretty inexplicable place lately.

Everywhere I seem to look there is another story/opinion piece/condemnation/defence/piece of fluff about a spoilt popster and her behaviour on an award show hosted by a channel that I once revered but that ceased to be about actual music a veryvery long time ago.  I have no opinion on the whole thing.

Really, I don’t.

Is she a talentless hack as is maintained in most of the posts I’ve seen?  Couldn’t tell you, since I don’t think I’ve heard one of her songs all the way through.  Ever.  I tend to be pretty quick to judge what I find listenable, and if it ain’t I change it up.  As far as my experience of her is concerned, she looks like Vanessa Bayer on SNL and speaks like a clueless teenager with too much time and attention afforded to keeping her in the spotlight.

Is she a young woman embracing her sexuality in defiance of her squeaky clean Disneychildstar image?  Couldn’t care less.  Not my type.

Should the guy she was grinding on be getting some of the flack about this whole event?  Probably- if it’s being handed out, it should be proportional to involvement.

Is he a misogynist jackass?  Couldn’t say- although in his case I HAVE heard the song (only because it was on Colbert and I love Colbert- the whole Daft Punk thing was awesome.  Didn’t see it?  You should) and I gotta say that ‘overrated pap’ is an understatement.

I don’t have children, so I really have no legitimate input about the impact and influence of ‘tween heroes on the littler humans among us.  Except to say that you’re the parent- therefore it’s your call on what what the littles are exposed to.  Or not exposed to.

Something like the MTV Awards is probably not appropriate viewing for the younger set (this is based upon my last viewing of the show which, if I remember correctly, involved an aging popster sharing kisses with two younger cookie-cutter-replica popsters).  Yes, there has been a lot of extraneous press about the whole thing that is creeping out of prime time and likely past the parental filters here and there- I get that.  It’s kind of the point of this post, actually.

So this morning, while getting myself ready to force myself out the door to get to the oh-so-frustrating day job, the CBC was talking about Syria, and the division in opinion as to next steps and ‘points of no return’– at the UN, in the US, UK and here at home.  Seems Harper, as usual, is ready to act unilaterally rather than forestall his planned prorogation of Parliament.  You know, doing the opposite of what is supposed to happen in our political system.

(Haven’t we been here before?  All of us, I mean.  Not just those of us here in Canada with our Head Oligarch making all the tough calls.  All of us in the West who are being goaded into an untenable situation that will require the use of force and have lasting repercussions for all countries- and their citizenry- involved).

And then it was back to the Miley-crap.

The media- and the interworld especially- won’t shut up about half-naked shenanigans among the talentless over-privileged celebrities that are ever-present and prioritized by those in charge of setting the programming/editorials/filler that makes up our daily go-to sources of information.  While actual important and potentially world-altering news is restricted to argumentative and ill-informed pundits and brief editorial soundbites.

I’ve mentioned this, and my belief that it is a conscious technique being employed by our governments- with the complicity of the media moguls- to keep the population anesthetized to the mess that is the world (and the country, and the province, and the city), before.

Jebus.

I am increasingly finding myself at complete and total wits’ end lately.  Whatever wits to which I may have been able to legitimately lay claim seem to have fled completely.

This is, admittedly, partly due to my own current less-than-stellar Sitz im Leben, but the overwhelming desire to just turn it all off and disconnect completely from the wider world that seems immune to voices of education, intelligence, moderation and reason is, well, overwhelming right now.

Anomie, thy name is Cole.

Then a ray (or, literally, Ray) of sunshine popped up on one of those problematic social media outlets I was just railing about.

This:

I have one more cottage weekend coming my way in a couple of weeks, and I have now found THE book that will accompany me and help me from getting caught up in too much debauchery and craziness.  Ray will keep me company while the annual Bay Cup tournament is going on.

(‘The Bay Cup tournament?’ you ask.  It’s a full contact, no holds barred, friendship testing game of Risk- in which I cannot participate due to a long ago incident of Risk-related violence that has led to post-traumatic Risk disorder (PTRD)).

I love the Kinks.  I can remember hunting for limited edition vinyl copies of my fave albums at the Vinyl Museum on Yonge Street back in the day, and scoring a pristine edition of Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround Part 1 (there is no Part 2, incidentally).  THAT was a good day.

Ray Davies is a storyteller par excellence.  The characters and themes that run through his songs remain familiar- like old friends.  Who doesn’t know the name of the cheeky lass who had a ‘dark brown voice‘ and ‘walked like a woman and talked like a man‘?

‘Father Christmas’ gets a whole lot of air time in my house ’round the holidays.  It’s a social commentary and snappy tune all in one.

‘Father Christmas, give us some money
We’ll beat you up if you make us annoyed
Father Christmas, give us some money
Don’t mess around with those silly toys

But give my daddy a job cause he needs one
He’s got lots of mouths to feed
But if you’ve got one, I’ll have a machine gun
So I can scare all the kids down the street’

Today, being reminded that he, and other actual songwriters like him. are out there in the world was a breath of fresh air in the midst of my existential despair.

I’ll get back to you (and to my hero worship of Ray) once I’ve read the new book.

(Update: I got too excited too quickly and failed to check the actual release date of the book.  I have to wait until OCTOBER to get my hands on it.  Sigh.  Will have to find another cottage read.  But I WILL let you know once I’ve had the opportunity to bask in some more of Ray’s light)

But lest we forget why we NEED dudes like him, and his brother, Dave (shouldn’t play favourites, there’s enough sibling rivalry in that relationship already) writing songs and telling our stories and sounding alarms, the last word(s) can be Dave Davies’.

Time to shift the dialogue back to things of actual import.

‘All the stories have been told
Of kings and days of old,
But there’s no England now.
All the wars that were won and lost
Somehow don’t seem to matter very much anymore.
All the lies we were told,
All the lies of the people running round,
Their castles have burned.
Now I see change,
But inside we’re the same as we ever were.

Living on a thin line,
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?
Living on a thin line,
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?
Living on a thin line,
Living this way, each day is a dream.
What am I, what are we supposed to do?
Living on a thin line,
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?

Now another century nearly gone,
What are we gonna leave for the young?
What we couldn’t do, what we wouldn’t do,
It’s a crime, but does it matter?
Does it matter much, does it matter much to you?
Does it ever really matter?
Yes, it really, really matters.

Living on a thin line,
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?
Living on a thin line,
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?

Now another leader says
Break their hearts and break some heads.
Is there nothing we can say or do?
Blame the future on the past,
Always lost in blood and guts.
And when they’re gone, it’s me and you.

Living on a thin line,
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?
Living on a thin line,
Tell me now, what are we supposed to do?
Living on a thin line.’