Two Months To Christmas. Oh Boy.

Jesus, this shit does not shimmer and shine e'er once it did. Oh, Christmas ain't much fun for the terminally depressive adult. No, sir. Oh, there is an element of sadness deeper than the motherfucking ocean to it. Yup. Yes, dearie, yes; another year pissed away in the sublimation of desires attainable and un-so. 40 down, 30-odd to go. I never knew adulthood was supposed to be about acting like you don't want anything for yourself. No, I don't mean a fucking SUV.

Let me tell you what I want this year so you'll have the time to find the appropriate fucking website.

1) Dick Cheney's still-beating heart. That'd get me cracking a smile that wasn't for th' benefit of someone else. Yup.

2) A high-powered rifle and a water tower above a Promise Keepers rally. Scurry, scurry, scurry.

3) Lennon back for a couple days. I'll give you six Rumsfelds and a couple Delays. And I'll throw in my fucking soul.

4) Five minutes alone with Karl Rove. You can tie my hands. I'd mostly use my fucking teeth anyway. Mmm. Sweetmeats. That's Christmas-y.

5) Um, yeah I'd like to be 10 again for a week. Dec. 20-27 would work. And I want to talk to my dad. Haven't seen him since '90. It's almost worse when they're still out there, you know? Out there but they may as well be on Pluto.

Fuck it. I know I wouldn't have the songs without The Ache, but she digs in good sometimes. Real good. A relentless taskmistress indeed. Makes a li'l housey in your fucking head. They don't tell you about this when you sign at the fucking crossroads, dog. Sometimes you get a day that is like spider eggs hatching in your heart. I think there's a finite amount of those you can have. I read it. Gotta ride it out. Ride it out. Walk it off.

Rain, rain, go away.


Blogger fgfdsg said...

I've long held the belief that songwriting, (however feeble), is a type of manic / depressive disorder. The Ache gives your life a heavy weight and intense sadness, but also leads to the moments where it all tumbles out in a rush of activity, seemingly out of thin air.

When I was writing my will recently, I was struck yesterday by the thought that I haven't seen my father in over 20 years, and that the boys in his new family are now grown men and have been his sons longer than I ever was. Man, did that thought wound me deeply.

You're right, sometimes Dead would be Easier to deal with.

Give sorrow words, mate.

6:57 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

what about thanksgiving mr foot?
the turkey, the mashed potatoes,
stuffing,squash,gravy,creamed onions,turnip,sauteed carrots
andparsnips? and all the pies?
not to mention the bloody maries
and iced beer. you two
should invite your dads over!!!!

9:58 AM  
Blogger XTCfan said...

What, for a food fight?

Sometimes it's better to not be around family -- even when their absence hurts, you know it hurts less than it would if they were actually there.

Bobby, I'm down with all your other wishes. I'll work on the Dick Cheney thing for this weekend. Hell, maybe we should ask both him and Karl to the gig and invite them outside during a break to smoke a fattie, and then smoke them instead, eh?


12:11 PM  
Blogger Kevin Wolf said...

I only wish I was eloquent as you, Bobby, when I'm in these moods. Instead, I clam up. (So I'm even less eloquent than usual.)

The holidays are definitely to be approached with caution.

Hey - have fun on the 29th tearing Arlington a new one. Wish I could be there, guys. Foot, ya gotta tell me where to get your performance schedule so I can see you here in Mass.

2:37 PM  
Blogger res publica said...

Christmas always sends me to the hellish pits of Ye Olde Depressione too. What is it about Christmas? It seems sort of similar to Thanksgiving, but I never get all cry-y about Thanksgiving. I just eat tons of sweet, sweet pie.

I was thinking the other day that I'd love to go back and start high school again. There's so much I would do differently.

Oh also, fuck dads. Dads hit you and then they leave. "Fuck dads" is one of the more common themes of my yuletide meditations, followed by a close second of "why didn't you love me, dad?" Which is only more proof that families make us crazy, and children should be decanted from their cloning vats directly into a childrearing collective run by the state.

1:19 AM  

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