I was sitting in a waiting room at the hospital yesterday listening to some self-righteous moron of a woman droning to her husband about how "everyone at the party said he [Phelps] knew exactly what to do with it. I wouldn't even know what to do with it. It's appalling."
Sometimes it's good to be around idiots because it keeps my hope for the world from growing too large. Never get too confident in the American public.
The most disgusting thing about the Gold Medal Bong affair is how Mr. Phelps (your assignment, Mr. Phelps, should you choose to accept it. . .) feels compelled to abase himself publicly for fear of losing his lucrative advertising gigs. Whip me! Beat me! Make me eat soggy cereal! But **please** don't cancel my ad contracts.
Well, I don't know what I'd do in his flippers. (One of the awful things about being a marketable celebrity must be how beholden you feel toward all the people who helped get you there, and how you feel obligated not to screw up **their** investments. Yuck.)
On your mark red ribbon runner The caressing rev of motors Finely tuned like fancy women In thirties evening gowns Up the charts Off to the airport Your name's in the news Everything's first class The lights go down And it's just you up there Getting them to feel like that
Remember the days when you used to sit And make up your tunes for love And pour your simple sorrow To the soundhole and your knee And now you're seen On giant screens And at parties for the press And for people who have slices of you From the company They toss around your latest golden egg Speculation well who's to know If the next one in the nest Will glitter for them so. . .
Oh the power and the glory Just when you're getting a taste for worship They start bringing out the hammers And the boards And the nails
I heard it in the wind last night It sounded like applause Chilly now End of summer No more shiny hot nights It was just the arbutus rustling And the bumping of the logs And the moon swept down black water Like an empty spotlight
I was sitting in a waiting room at the hospital yesterday listening to some self-righteous moron of a woman droning to her husband about how "everyone at the party said he [Phelps] knew exactly what to do with it. I wouldn't even know what to do with it. It's appalling."
ReplyDeleteSometimes it's good to be around idiots because it keeps my hope for the world from growing too large. Never get too confident in the American public.
The most disgusting thing about the Gold Medal Bong affair
ReplyDeleteis how Mr. Phelps (your assignment, Mr. Phelps, should
you choose to accept it. . .) feels compelled to abase
himself publicly for fear of losing his lucrative
advertising gigs. Whip me! Beat me! Make me eat
soggy cereal! But **please** don't cancel my ad contracts.
Well, I don't know what I'd do in his flippers. (One
of the awful things about being a marketable celebrity
must be how beholden you feel toward all the people
who helped get you there, and how you feel obligated
not to screw up **their** investments. Yuck.)
On your mark red ribbon runner
The caressing rev of motors
Finely tuned like fancy women
In thirties evening gowns
Up the charts
Off to the airport
Your name's in the news
Everything's first class
The lights go down
And it's just you up there
Getting them to feel like that
Remember the days when you used to sit
And make up your tunes for love
And pour your simple sorrow
To the soundhole and your knee
And now you're seen
On giant screens
And at parties for the press
And for people who have slices of you
From the company
They toss around your latest golden egg
Speculation well who's to know
If the next one in the nest
Will glitter for them so. . .
Oh the power and the glory
Just when you're getting a taste for worship
They start bringing out the hammers
And the boards
And the nails
I heard it in the wind last night
It sounded like applause
Chilly now
End of summer
No more shiny hot nights
It was just the arbutus rustling
And the bumping of the logs
And the moon swept down black water
Like an empty spotlight
-- Joni Mitchell, "For The Roses"