Here’s Your Pop-Culture Flannery O’Connor Reference for Today

We’re thinking the man who once was T-Muffle had something to do with this.

Speaking of the grotesque – I have to journey up to LA today, so it’ll be even quieter than usual ’round here. Until tomorrow, then. Toodles!

Comments

  1. okay, that is fantastic!!! can i substitute attorney though? that one goes on my fridge with ATTORNEY in there somewhere in big letters. my husband will deeply appreciate this.
    mcm

  2. Notrelatedtoted says

    I don’t get it. But in honor of your trip to the City of Angeles, I give you the following gem from those hip and oh-so quirky Decemberists:

    There is a city by the sea
    A gentle company
    I don’t suppose you want to
    And as it tells its sorry tale
    In harrowing detail
    Its hollowness will haunt you
    Its streets and boulevards
    Orphans and oligarchs it hears
    A plaintive melody
    Truncated symphony
    An ocean’s garbled vomit on the shore,
    Los Angeles, I’m yours

    Oh ladies, pleasant and demure
    Sallow-cheeked and sure
    I can see your undies
    And all the boys you drag about
    An empty fallow fount
    From Saturdays to Mondays
    You hill and valley crowd
    Hanging your trousers down at heel
    This is the realest thing
    As ancient choirs sing
    A dozen blushing cherubs wheel above
    Los Angeles my love

    Oh what a rush of ripe élan
    Languor on divans
    Dalliant and dainty
    But oh, the smell of burnt cocaine
    The dolor and decay
    It only makes me cranky
    Oh great calamity,
    Ditch of iniquity and tears
    How I abhor this place
    Its sweet and bitter taste
    Has left me wretched, retching on all fours
    Los Angeles, I’m yours

    Enjoy.

  3. Matthew Lickona says

    Thank you, Not-Ted. I’m pretty sure MCM’s comment referred to the New Yorker cartoon below.

  4. Notrelatedtoted says

    Ok, I get it now. I was re-reading the post about the wart-healer and trying to substitute “attorney.” Duh.

  5. Mark Lickona says

    That song is amazing. Turns your stomach inside out, but like the singer, leaves you wanting more. It’s a veritable allegory of seduction. But what titillates most is the story of the God-forgetting but somehow not-yet-God-forsaken City of Angels:

    Hanging your trousers down at heel
    This is the realest thing
    As ancient choirs sing
    A dozen blushing cherubs wheel above

    Sounds like a paradox I could fall in love with. Sort of like Benedict Groeschel’s New York: “Babylon and Jerusalem all rolled up in a hot dog bun.” Not the same level of poetry, but it’s the thought that counts.

  6. Notrelatedtoted says

    “An ocean’s garbled vomit on the shore” is perhaps my favorite line.

    I have sort of a love/hate relationship with the Decemberists. Ever heard “My Mother Was A Chinese Trapeze Artist?”

    “My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist
    In pre-war Paris
    Smuggling bombs for the underground.
    And she met my father
    At a fete in Aix-en-Provence.
    He was disguised as a Russian cadet
    in the employ of the Axis.
    And there in the half-light
    Of the provincial midnight
    To a lone concertina
    They drank in cantinas
    And toasted to Edith Piaf
    And the fall of the Reich.

    My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy
    And left for the cattle
    But later was found by a communist
    Who’d deserted his ranks
    To follow his dream
    To start up a punk rock band in South Carolina.
    I get letters sometimes.
    They bought a plantation
    She weeds the tobacco
    He offends the nation
    And they write, “Don’t be a stranger, y’hear.”
    “Sincerely, your sister.”

    So my parents had me
    To the disgust of the prostitutes
    On a bed in a brothel.
    Surprisingly raised with tender care
    ‘Til the money got tight
    And they bet me away
    To a blind brigadier in a game
    Of high stakes canasta.
    But he made me a sailor
    On his brigadier ship fleet.
    I know every yardarm
    From main mast to jib sheet.
    But sometimes I long to be landlocked
    And to work in a bakery.”

    Kills me everytime.

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