Compound W, Mister Gray, and "Gypsy": How it all Falls together

Let me get this bundle of joy out of the way:  The other night, on a random itunes memory lane trip, I suddenly remembered Til Tuesday's "J for Jules", Aimee Mann's breakup song for Jules Shear.  Sad fucking beautiful song from the 80s nobody knew.  So I find it, and get obsessed all over again, as I am wont to do.  I keep listening to it today and it's put me in the melancholy mood.  So tonight, to really bring the mood, I search to see if there ever was a video.  Well, fuck me Dorothy, no there wasn't, but this dude did a slideshow for his kid before he deployed to wherever, and it totally changed the song, and so I am gonna spread the melancholy here just 'cause:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwsCxW3dWVQ

Fucking link won't underline.  Fuck you, APPLE! Copy and paste people.

Anyway.

Hello, y'all!  I will give you a point form update on what's gone on since the last time we spoke.  Not a whole lot, but let me think:

So, I had pneumonia, maybe.  That sounds so Carly-Rae.  Anyway, right after that post, long story short, I had a few scary nights of my lungs filling with fluid and coughing until I puked, etc.  The walk-in doctor said "something is going on there like pneumonia" but didn't x-ray me.  Love love love the walk-in clinics.  I ended up on antibiotics for a few weeks, and then it seemed to come back, so I just finished another round, and now my kids are coughing like donkeys and guess what?  I'm all full of phlegm.  I swear, I am getting paranoid. Since I am always freaked out about everything, I was googling lung cancer, asbestosis, heart failure.... LOLOLOLOL, they should have never invented the internet.

--  I'm getting a wart.  On my finger.  I feel diseased.  And dirty.  And like people will think I've been fingering strippers with my index finger.  I haven't, you know.  Really.  Strippers aren't even legal here in this backwater province, so there!  But anyway, who the fuck gets a wart when he is 42 and 3/4?  That's some fucked up shit.  It's probably because my immune system is shutting down due to the asbestosis.  Asbestosis and stripper fingering.  Anyway.

--  What else... what else....  I have discovered the funniest writer ever.  Her name is Jenny Lawson, and apparently, she's known as the Bloggess.  She's fucking the funniest thing since sliced bread.  I read her book during the pneumonia stint, and actually had to put my ipad down at one point because I was afraid the laughter would cause me to restrict the air to my lungs that obviously was already compromised.  So, I am rereading it right now.  Damn, she's what the dr. ordered.

--  I leafed through the 50 Shades of Grey that all the women are loving, and I don't get it.  It's just really badly written porn.  Jackie Collins?  That bitch knew how to write smut.  The summer of grade 8?  I sat in my unfinished basement with my mother's copy of Hollywood Wives (no need to hide it since nobody went into that creepy stinkhole of a basement unless they needed to) and... learned all about carnal knowledge.  This other chick?  Not so much.  It's basically Penthouse Forum Letters for women.  I dunno.  Whatever floats your boat, ladies.  My mother would have read all of them, since she was sort of a smut queen.  Sigh.

--  What else... OH.... in a strange twist of fate, Fleetwood Mac announced a tour.  I scored 13 row floor tix.  I want closer.  I trust a miracle will happen and I will be right in front of Stevie yelling "Lindsey is a goddamn idiot" as she sings "Silver Springs" and then invites me onstage while she sings "Gypsy" because it reminds me of my mother and Stevie's dead friend Robin.  In another weird twist of fate:  In 1993 or so, when Fleetwood Mac put out their boxed set, that's all I wanted for Xmas.  It was like 100 bucks and my dear, sweet Rachel bought it for me.  I remember taking it to my sisters on Xmas day just to listen to on my nephew's boom box, as it had an "alternate" version of "Gypsy."  This version fucking ROCKS!  This is the exact same day I remember driving Rachel home to have dinner with her family, and on my way back to my sister's house, the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" was on the radio and I still remember:  I was smoking a Craven M, driving my Dad's black 5th Avenue, and I busted out in tears because I knew things wouldn't always be so happy and together with my family.  I suddenly knew the inevitability of time.  And now, after my mom has died of Luekemia, the same type Robin Anderson had, the song just haunts me.  I fucking deserve front row.  Universe, make this fucking shit happen!!!!!!!  I'm leaving it up to you.

-- OMG, Paul McCartney is singing that Xmas song of his on SNL right now.  You know, that bad one.  So bad it's good?  Do you ever listen to music and think "is this any good at all, or is it just the memory?"  Like McCartney's "No More Lonely Nights."  Always hated the song, but like it now because of nostalgia.  Same with Lennon's "Nobody Told Me."  Is that even a good song, or is it nostalgia?  I don't even fucking know anymore.

-- Speaking of SNL, is it only an hour now?  Tonight it was an hour.  That would suck if it was.

-- Shit, I missed Twilight Zone on the Newfie channel.  Damnit!

--  neighbor across the alley had a skunk under her shed.  Directly behind us.  3 fucking times today, it has felt as if I was performing "favours" for the skunk with my mouth, and it got a little too frisky for it's own good - aka the smell was so strong i am sure I ate it.  3 times.  Right now?  I smell it again.  It is times like these I wish I believed in guns, because this fucker needs to be shot.  Isn't it too cold for fucking skunks anyway?

-- Anyway, I leave you with this:  I've posted it before. Where Stevie grabs her chest and sings "and a memory is all that is left OF HER NOW at about 2:50 or so... well... that goes out to all of us know lightening strikes, maybe once, maybe twice.  For my mom, and for Robin, you are always there.

Have a good one, people.  xoxoxoxo

JT, otherwise known as Sheila the Great.