Suburbia holds more than you care for…
I blame Marko and the Thanksgiving in Hell show for putting this in my head since Thursday, so I’m working to exorcise it. A song of fake nostalgia, written by Brits pretending to be Californians (seriously, who gets excited about driving to San Jose?) for a band that didn’t exist. The tune that kicked off that K-Tel LP you had which also had ‘Life is a Rock’ that I listened to over an over to figure out all the lyrics though nobody cared about it. Faux nostalgia but we’d stay up all night listening to that pop music on the record player and talking about things like how miserable we were and if it were worth going on and whether things would ever get better, if we’d be stuck in that piddly town forever and marry the stupid guys we knew and have kids and die never having gone anywhere ever or living fabulous lives that we knew we ought to have — but we have survived and we remember those old dumb songs with a fondness and we’re still here so somehow fake nostalgia has become real memories, and I hear that in this silly song even though it’s no better than it was, but I am — and I got out. So I salute you, my friend.
The man for whom the word dulcet was invented. It had a long wait, but he was there. And were we not fortunate indeed that his rumble lives on?
Coming this Halloween, a neo-giallo serial magazine The Blood Red Experiment. My novella in slices takes its name from this song. An ancient knife, a bloody ritual and a killer obsessed with his queen: get ready for the Madonna of the Wasps and six more compelling thrillers.