Sunday's Song

If you've ever stood in a place and believed you had everything to lose, this song will fly you up out of that valley. 
Best place to be standing, and it's exactly where you are standing. 
(Or sitting.)
(Or reclining.)
(Or tap dancing.)



Brought to me by Scott Regan, and so brought to you.

fás

"We are not the same person this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person."


- W. Somerset Maugham

Gpd

Tonight before bed I was googling 4 various things I needed to learn about. And at the end of my serious academic study, I decided to Google God.

Except I did it really fast because I both wanted to (suddenly) Google God, as well as go to bed.

Here's what I found:

We also provide our customers with unparalleled support and service.

---Gpd 

(also known as Global Parts Distributor) 

This is to say: I mis-spelled God. Spelled her Gpd.

No matter.  All the Gpd entries were Godly enough.

(And if you are sure your God's a dude, read The Shack, or you know, watch Madonna's Like a Prayer.  Or just remember beyond gender.  )
Except don't mis-spell gender or you will wind up with beyond gander and that's just not.  Very.  Interesting. 

Sunday's Song: Suggestion Box

I first heard this song a few years ago, while I was driving, and the Universal DJ was playing music to connect to the world.  When I listened to his program, I had this odd feeling that he'd used some invisible instrument to open the top of my head, and had also plumbed the depths of my heart, and created an appropriate soundtrack. 
It was like, I'm elated, and all the songs are about elation!
It was like, I'm heartbroken, and every song is about my specific heartbreak!
It was like, I'm craving a bologna and peanut butter sandwich, and every single song is about that.


Once, when chatting with a librarian while checking out, we began talking of music and fell onto the topic of the Universal DJ.  And she said something to the effect that he was like a soul DJ.   And I was like Ah know!
How every song she heard was specifically applicable to her. 
And I was like, Ah know!
And I was like, That's a gift right there, what that man does, sending songs though the airwaves that are stamped with exactly everyone's name on it. 
Indeedy. 


Every now and then this song drifts back into mind.  When the Universal DJ spun it, he played the Red Molly cover.  But it was writ by Susan Werner, and she plays it here. 

Bless my heart. And bless yours too.

A dear friend of mine relocated to Atlanta, from NYC.


And upon noting certain cultural shockahs, I learned  of ones which I like, such as "The lowest common denominator rules traffic, and if you are five lanes over from your exit and suddenly decide, 'That's my exit!', people will slow down and accommodate this.' " In short, terrible driving habits are not only permitted, but encouraged. 
Sign me up.    I'm tired of these non-human cameras tracking my every ill-timed left-on-red, as though it were a crime or something.  Seriously.  In Hotlata, I'd be encouraged.


Further, no one honks their horn unless someone is dying.  She has yet to hear a horn honk. 


Beyond this though, my favorite story is how people say, "You are an %$UW#L idiot." 


According to my dear friend, they say it like this, "Well bless her heart, she didn't know where the copy paper is kept!" 


At first listen, if you are from Not Atlanta, it sounds like you are just the sweetest newbie, learning the ropes.  Listen a little deeper though, and it's like, Dumbass.


Gives this tune a whole new meaning.  But even without it, #(#(@)%.  This woman can sing. 


Sometimes Sunday's song comes early.

(10,000)

The People of the Other Village

hate the people of this village   

and would nail our hats

to our heads for refusing in their presence to remove them

or staple our hands to our foreheads   

for refusing to salute them

if we did not hurt them first: mail them packages of rats,

mix their flour at night with broken glass.

We do this, they do that.

They peel the larynx from one of our brothers’ throats.

We devein one of their sisters.

The quicksand pits they built were good.

Our amputation teams were better.

We trained some birds to steal their wheat.

They sent to us exploding ambassadors of peace.

They do this, we do that.

We canceled our sheep imports.   

They no longer bought our blankets.   

We mocked their greatest poet   

and when that had no effect   

we parodied the way they dance

which did cause pain, so they, in turn, said our God

was leprous, hairless.

We do this, they do that.

Ten thousand (10,000) years, ten thousand

(10,000) brutal, beautiful years.

by Thomas Lux

Sunday's Song

Photo likely taken in the days before Beard Oil was sold everywhere.
Lyrics allegedly inspired by Retsina, or Psalm 23.  Or both.  Or neither. 
(That's what allegedly means: all of it is true, none of it is true, or Other.)
But I don't know.
Don't really care.
Let there be songs...