Building the Mystery

Last night, Dom called and insisted I go out with him, Theresa, Natalie and Sharkey to see Little Miss Sunshine. I hemmed. I hawed.

Dom: Call Sharkey. He’ll pick you up on the way to Loew’s.
Tata: I’ll call him.

I was still hedging.

Tata: Should I go?
Sharkey: Sometimes going out is the right thing when you feel that way.
Tata: I should go.
Sharkey: Are you going?
Tata: Pick me up in an hour?
Sharkey: One hour!

So we went. I started laughing before the credits, and throughout most of the movie, the only people laughing were my friends and me. We are, however, used to it and don’t care. So today, despite the rain and the politics, I’m in a good mood. My papers are all over the floor. Before I go to work at the family shiny objects emporium, I’ll organize and file them. This will make me as happy as I get without shedding foundation garments.

In the spirit of international cooperation then, I’ll disclose two details about Poor Impulse Control.

1. The search criteria that bring people here more than all others combined are various forms of ANARCHY. This thrills me, and refers to a posting from December, 2005, in which I declared in passing that if and when I have grandchildren they won’t be wearing fucking pastels. No, they’ll have little black onesies with red Anarchy logos on them. This post still makes me howl, and if you haven’t, you should read it and shower me with tribute. I will accept money, power and offers of cheap, tawdry sex in which you play the East German spy and I play General DeGaulle, marching orders optional.

2. The other search is pieces of lyrics (run away turn away run away) to one particular song: Bronski Beat’s Small Town Boy. Apparently other people are also haunted by Jimmy Somerville‘s singular voice and the mournful lyrics. The post itself is about finding oneself suddenly responsible and alienated; thus, not tied closely to the song, which I love with my whole black heart and always have. I understand having to leave a familiar place right now, in desperation.

YouTube is evidently my new best friend, and in the spirit of, you know, international cooperation, I hope you get the phone call you need from out of the vast and loving blue.

Updated 7.30.09: Edited to pull the rug out from under a motherfucker stealing bandwith by incorrectly linking to this post.

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