A couple of weekends ago I cleaned out my car to the exciting new record by The Pat Sajak Assassins and came up with some stuff about the '70s art rock and '80s art pop it reminded me of.
By the time I had my smart aleck story framed (as orchetral maeuvers in "the dork") I realized that my buddy Brett Underwood had a performance piece on the record and I knew my story really should have been about that.
Really, I should have just published the words by Brett he performs on that piece. So I posted my goofy thing and thought to ask Brett for a copy of his words. Then I forgot. Then today I remembered when I saw a copy of the new Pat Sajack Assassins record, LUNCH?!?, in the garage of John Eiler, the Confluence cat who gave me my copy to begin with.
I remembered. I asked. Brett hooked me up. I am delivering. Brett Lars Underwood, ladies and gentlemen.
*
ORGANIZATION
By Brett Lars Underwood
By Brett Lars Underwood
He is weary of madness on parade. The feng shui isn’t working today.
He’s tired of stepping on it all and being the behemoth in his space.
He stacks the detritus all along the walls, sits down and stares at the page.
He writes:
A vista.
Clear a view through a cluster of clambering nincompoopery.
A walk amidst birds and trees and turn-of-the-century urban landscaping.
The lungs of the city and frayed shoestrings commingle and shuffle.
Sunshine and dilated pupils. Dreamy clouds form dreams…lots of dreams.
Dreams of order. Dreams of silence. Dreams of daydreams of sleep and bliss
in nightmares of clouds.
While breeze brushes the grass into nothing but park grass and man-made wonder and:
“Mommy”, the little girl said, “why do some of these trees look plastic?”
“Well, Jenny”, the Mommy said, “that’s an interesting question.
But maybe more interesting is the question: Why are some trees made out of plastic?”
A police helicopter hovers over a nearby neighborhood.
“The Previl wears dada”, said the little girl.
“What?!”, said the mother.
“Daddy says that when Rosy walks into the room”
“Don’t make me slap you again”
“Oh, Mommy!”
There was pause exemplified by a space in this page.
And then another one.
“Mommy, what’s an orgasm?”
A diesel powered leaf blower drowns the breeze of thought.
“I need to go to the mall.”
“Not again, Mommy! What’s dada?!” the little girl screamed.
“The first word that came out of your mouth”, the mother sighed.
“Rosy thinks our house is shit”, said the little girl.
The mother yanked the girl by the arm and walked her out of the park to the parking garage in her mind. They drove 24 miles to a shopping mall. There was a black cat in a camouflage hoodie holding a sign that read, “Waiting for MODOT”.
The clouds formed into “Got MILF” and the mother began to cry yesterday’s tears.
She decided to buy shoes.
Lots of shoes.
He sighs and conceives airtight boxes housed in many-shelved units but can’t find his hammer. He takes a majestic dump and decides to take a very long walk during which he kicks a soda can for some time.
______________________________________________________________________*
**He’s tired of stepping on it all and being the behemoth in his space.
He stacks the detritus all along the walls, sits down and stares at the page.
He writes:
A vista.
Clear a view through a cluster of clambering nincompoopery.
A walk amidst birds and trees and turn-of-the-century urban landscaping.
The lungs of the city and frayed shoestrings commingle and shuffle.
Sunshine and dilated pupils. Dreamy clouds form dreams…lots of dreams.
Dreams of order. Dreams of silence. Dreams of daydreams of sleep and bliss
in nightmares of clouds.
While breeze brushes the grass into nothing but park grass and man-made wonder and:
“Mommy”, the little girl said, “why do some of these trees look plastic?”
“Well, Jenny”, the Mommy said, “that’s an interesting question.
But maybe more interesting is the question: Why are some trees made out of plastic?”
A police helicopter hovers over a nearby neighborhood.
“The Previl wears dada”, said the little girl.
“What?!”, said the mother.
“Daddy says that when Rosy walks into the room”
“Don’t make me slap you again”
“Oh, Mommy!”
There was pause exemplified by a space in this page.
And then another one.
“Mommy, what’s an orgasm?”
A diesel powered leaf blower drowns the breeze of thought.
“I need to go to the mall.”
“Not again, Mommy! What’s dada?!” the little girl screamed.
“The first word that came out of your mouth”, the mother sighed.
“Rosy thinks our house is shit”, said the little girl.
The mother yanked the girl by the arm and walked her out of the park to the parking garage in her mind. They drove 24 miles to a shopping mall. There was a black cat in a camouflage hoodie holding a sign that read, “Waiting for MODOT”.
The clouds formed into “Got MILF” and the mother began to cry yesterday’s tears.
She decided to buy shoes.
Lots of shoes.
He sighs and conceives airtight boxes housed in many-shelved units but can’t find his hammer. He takes a majestic dump and decides to take a very long walk during which he kicks a soda can for some time.
______________________________________________________________________*
Performed live with the band, the piece is titled "Orgasmation Station." I've not seen it on the PSA MySpace page. Maybe Joe can post it up there at some juncture.
Live CBGB performance photo by Eric Fogleman from that there page of the Space that is My.
The band is playing with Salisbury at the Tap Room on October 25. Brett will be in the housing, bending taphandles.
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1 comment:
hey, I finally uploaded Orgasmazation Station to our myspace page, and made it downloadable... enjoy.
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