If the mountains should…just fall away,
We’d have no more reason to stay.
Oh, why do we hide all the fun?
When all we need is to run…
Run with me, oh, lovely one.
My heart is certain. I’m ready to fall.
Just give a nod and I will know
That my imagination can flow.
You’ve got me wrapped around,
Wrapped and twirled around in you.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Paolo Nutini
I'm in love with Paolo Nutini's scratchy, soulful voice. His live performances outshine any of the prerecorded tracks I've heard and his lyrics are fantastic. He's Scottish and Italian, with a very heavy Scottish accent, which adds even more flavor to his raspy, melodic voice. There's something about this ingenue that convinces me that some people are plopped on this Earth with vocal chords to shake other's souls. Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but when you hear a voice that brings chills all over and evokes tremendous emotion and passion with each original line, it's magic! :)
Here's my new favorite live performance of Paolo's from 2006:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qllpkliWhtk&feature=related
Here's my new favorite live performance of Paolo's from 2006:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qllpkliWhtk&feature=related
Thursday, April 2, 2009
let me sign - robert pattinson
<3 this song!
She was standing there by the broken tree
Her hands were all twisted she was pointing at me
I was damned by the light coming out of her eyes
She spoke with a voice that disrupted the sky
She said ' Come on over to the bitter shade,
I will wrap you in my arms and you'll know you've been saved'
Let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
I was out for a drink in a soho bar
The air was smoked out liked a cheap cigar
She rose out of her seat like a painted ghost
She was the woman that I wanted the most
As she reached for my arm I gave her my hand
I said 'Lay me down easy let me understand'
Let me sign, let sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
As I walked through the door she was still in my head
As I entered the room she was laid there in bed
She reached out for me all twisted in black
I was on my way down, never coming back
let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
She was standing there by the broken tree
Her hands were all twisted she was pointing at me
I was damned by the light coming out of her eyes
She spoke with a voice that disrupted the sky
She said ' Come on over to the bitter shade,
I will wrap you in my arms and you'll know you've been saved'
Let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
I was out for a drink in a soho bar
The air was smoked out liked a cheap cigar
She rose out of her seat like a painted ghost
She was the woman that I wanted the most
As she reached for my arm I gave her my hand
I said 'Lay me down easy let me understand'
Let me sign, let sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
As I walked through the door she was still in my head
As I entered the room she was laid there in bed
She reached out for me all twisted in black
I was on my way down, never coming back
let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
let me sign, let me sign, can't fight the devil so just let me sign.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
date from hell...a short.
We sat across from each other gazing awkwardly above one another’s heads at the NCAA basketball final four game airing on every big screen dangling in the sports bar. Every once in a while he’d take a sip of his Stella and look over meekly, give a gruff “huh” and nod at whatever just happened at that instance in the game, pretending or naively thinking that I, too, cared what was happening on the screen in front of me. If it wasn’t triple overtime and Martha Stewart was on TV instead, I’m sure I’d get the same response from him – meek look, gruff “huh” and a can-you-believe-this nod. No, actually, I couldn’t believe it! I had suckered myself into thinking that a second date with this dud of a man could yield anything but the same tedium as the first night we went out. Katie warned me that he was a wet blanket, but in keeping with my new positive, open-minded New Year’s attitude, I gave him a chance. Honestly, a piece of cardboard had more personality than this kid. It was painful to stare blankly at the TV, but it was far less painful that actually having to speak two words to him. Prior to this staring contest, this is how our riveting conversation unraveled:
“So, what are you gonna get?”
“Not sure…you?”
“I love buffalo wings. They have great wings here. You can get them medium, hot, really hot or volcanic. I get the medium ones.”
“Cool,” I lied.
Awkward five-minute pause.
“Do you know yet?”
“Yeah. I think I’m going to get a BLT.”
“WAITRESS!” he screamed at the poor over-worked girl collecting another table’s order. She smiled politely (but rightly annoyed) at him and signaled she’d be right over.
Another awkward pause.
The waitress finishes at the other table and doesn’t have time to think of dismissing us because my date, Casanova, is hailing her down like a New York City taxi. I wanted to bury myself under the table and deny any relation to this redneck sitting across from me.
“Ok,” he starts to demand, “I need two dozen medium buffalo wings with ranch dressing and ketchup. NO NO NO blue cheese – that stuff makes me hurl” (I almost hurled as he said this) “and she finally decided on a BLT.”
Wow, what a gentleman!
“Do you want a salad or fries? Probably a salad,” he says knowingly to the disinterested waitress, “girls always try to look so proper on dates, but you know they want to dig into a whole bowl of buffalo wings like a dude! You were gonna say salad weren’t you? So proper!”
I want to slap him. Not with my girlie hand, but with a huge meaty man hand that could knock some sense into his ridiculous head and perhaps relocate him across the street to Hooters where he wanted to take me in the first place. I feel like his jackass moves would have seemed more appropriate there amidst the orange booty shorts and famous hot wings. Sitting there I feel like I would have expected this rude, degrading attitude from him. TGI Friday’s isn’t a five-star Zagat-rated foodie haven, but at least their menu consists of more than just hot wings.
“Could I actually get potato salad as a side, instead? Thank you.”
She nodded and walked off, hopefully to spit in his order of medium hot sauce.
Breathe. Am I being overly critical? Maybe I should chill out and just change the subject.
“So, Andy, how’s work? How do you like teaching middle school?” This was the one redeeming quality about him – he taught middle school social studies and coached wrestling during the winter season.
“Those little fuckers have been busting my balls non-stop these days!”
And the redemption was lost.
“Oh.”
“Wrestling season is ending, so the parents are all up in my shit to write recommendations for their kids for next year’s transition to high school wrestling. The kids are going ape shit because it’s getting warmer out and all the while we’re driving around the state in this broken down short bus to compete in meets against kids way better than my guys and getting our asses kicked.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s not your fault they don’t practice for shit! I played football, a real sport, but all they had open was this wrestling coach position and I needed the extra dough because the Wii was coming out and figured I could save up faster for it with a little after school work.”
At least he was financially competent to some extent.
“Cool.”
“Do you have a Wii? They are fucking awesome!”
Am I in an episode of the Sopranos? Why does he insist on cursing like a mob boss with anger management issues while discussing middle school wrestling?
“Cool,” I lied again. No more questions.
He takes his phone out of his front jean pocket and starts to text someone. Seriously? Am I boring him?
“Am I boring you?”
He looks up like a kid who was just caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar five minutest after he was told not to.
“No. I just forgot to tell my buddy that he has to come over at eight, not six, to play on my Wii because we’re out now.”
“Ah.” It was 5:30 now and if he thinks we’re going to be out any later then 6:30 he is delusional! “Yeah, I’ve got to be back at my place before seven, so…” I let my sentence linger so he can insert a ‘Perfect I can play my Wii an extra hour tonight!’ or ‘What, no night cap?’
“Whoa, that only gives us an hour,” he says offended.
I feel bad, but why does he even care?
“Sorry. Family obligation,” HUGE lie.
“On a Wednesday night?”
“Yeah. Dang!” I try to hide my sarcasm, but could really care less what this strange, rude guy thinks of my excuses to get the hell away from him.
“So, what are you gonna get?”
“Not sure…you?”
“I love buffalo wings. They have great wings here. You can get them medium, hot, really hot or volcanic. I get the medium ones.”
“Cool,” I lied.
Awkward five-minute pause.
“Do you know yet?”
“Yeah. I think I’m going to get a BLT.”
“WAITRESS!” he screamed at the poor over-worked girl collecting another table’s order. She smiled politely (but rightly annoyed) at him and signaled she’d be right over.
Another awkward pause.
The waitress finishes at the other table and doesn’t have time to think of dismissing us because my date, Casanova, is hailing her down like a New York City taxi. I wanted to bury myself under the table and deny any relation to this redneck sitting across from me.
“Ok,” he starts to demand, “I need two dozen medium buffalo wings with ranch dressing and ketchup. NO NO NO blue cheese – that stuff makes me hurl” (I almost hurled as he said this) “and she finally decided on a BLT.”
Wow, what a gentleman!
“Do you want a salad or fries? Probably a salad,” he says knowingly to the disinterested waitress, “girls always try to look so proper on dates, but you know they want to dig into a whole bowl of buffalo wings like a dude! You were gonna say salad weren’t you? So proper!”
I want to slap him. Not with my girlie hand, but with a huge meaty man hand that could knock some sense into his ridiculous head and perhaps relocate him across the street to Hooters where he wanted to take me in the first place. I feel like his jackass moves would have seemed more appropriate there amidst the orange booty shorts and famous hot wings. Sitting there I feel like I would have expected this rude, degrading attitude from him. TGI Friday’s isn’t a five-star Zagat-rated foodie haven, but at least their menu consists of more than just hot wings.
“Could I actually get potato salad as a side, instead? Thank you.”
She nodded and walked off, hopefully to spit in his order of medium hot sauce.
Breathe. Am I being overly critical? Maybe I should chill out and just change the subject.
“So, Andy, how’s work? How do you like teaching middle school?” This was the one redeeming quality about him – he taught middle school social studies and coached wrestling during the winter season.
“Those little fuckers have been busting my balls non-stop these days!”
And the redemption was lost.
“Oh.”
“Wrestling season is ending, so the parents are all up in my shit to write recommendations for their kids for next year’s transition to high school wrestling. The kids are going ape shit because it’s getting warmer out and all the while we’re driving around the state in this broken down short bus to compete in meets against kids way better than my guys and getting our asses kicked.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s not your fault they don’t practice for shit! I played football, a real sport, but all they had open was this wrestling coach position and I needed the extra dough because the Wii was coming out and figured I could save up faster for it with a little after school work.”
At least he was financially competent to some extent.
“Cool.”
“Do you have a Wii? They are fucking awesome!”
Am I in an episode of the Sopranos? Why does he insist on cursing like a mob boss with anger management issues while discussing middle school wrestling?
“Cool,” I lied again. No more questions.
He takes his phone out of his front jean pocket and starts to text someone. Seriously? Am I boring him?
“Am I boring you?”
He looks up like a kid who was just caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar five minutest after he was told not to.
“No. I just forgot to tell my buddy that he has to come over at eight, not six, to play on my Wii because we’re out now.”
“Ah.” It was 5:30 now and if he thinks we’re going to be out any later then 6:30 he is delusional! “Yeah, I’ve got to be back at my place before seven, so…” I let my sentence linger so he can insert a ‘Perfect I can play my Wii an extra hour tonight!’ or ‘What, no night cap?’
“Whoa, that only gives us an hour,” he says offended.
I feel bad, but why does he even care?
“Sorry. Family obligation,” HUGE lie.
“On a Wednesday night?”
“Yeah. Dang!” I try to hide my sarcasm, but could really care less what this strange, rude guy thinks of my excuses to get the hell away from him.
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Present
Time runs, gallops, torpedoes ahead of us.
Our futures are blank canvases, awaiting their design.
Daydreams morph times yet experienced, places yet seen, people yet encountered
And paint elaborate masterpieces in our minds.
Years pass in moments, decades disappear and we forget where we are: today.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
How Many Frogs Do I Have To Kiss?
Which one should I kiss today?
Tall, short, or somewhere in between
I’d kiss you all, but what does that mean?
Floozy, hussy, old maid and slut
Would be whispered in conversation as I strut.
Indecisive and tired is how I’d describe
This age-old diatribe:
“One day a prince will come to sweep you away!”
But will it really happen that way?
Waiting and hoping for him to come
Usually just make me feel desperate and dumb.
Traveling, working and vacationing worldwide
You’d think all that banter would just subside.
Yet, more than anything, I want to fall
For some Casanova who’s got it all:
Great job, good car, a house and a dog
Who’d kiss my feet even if I turned into a fat hog.
Cinderella and Bridget Jones both figured it out,
So I suppose I shouldn’t fret or doubt.
One day my prince will come, all gallant and strong
And I’ll just say, “What took you so long?”
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Bleed My Stone
The sincerity of your words seems unfounded
This love you’ve conjured for me created amidst the heartache of blandness
Floats as a cloud above both our heads like a cloud of doom...or impending sunshine.
How can the nothing that was have created a something so miserable to miss?
I play the part of a girl in love;
A girl whose heart was stolen from her unwilling, caged chest.
Walking was a fumbling, trepidacious experience;
Now I float on air.
The tides will turn.
I know this to be true.
The feelings of excitement and comfort aren’t steady.
There’s an unease with knowing it’s too good to be true.
A catch.
Perhaps you’re a slob.
Perhaps you clip your toenails on the front stoop.
Maybe you even, god forbid, replace the toilet paper in the wrong direction.
I want to savor the perfect reflection.
I need to keep the pristine view within reach.
The comfort of knowing the truth brings us closer to an end I fear we will face.
Isn’t there a way to covet all the perfection?
To hide my own imperfections, to be exact?
Front to cover and back again.
That’s how you want to know me.
Know everything about me.
The good, the bad, the ugly, the ridiculous, the deal breakers
Why?
Why can’t we sit still and indulge the perfection of the moment when we’re still enamored of the everything?
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