But I Thought the Old Lady Dropped it into the Ocean at the End

Xtry, Xtry, Husband Found Clubbed to Death by Metaphor.

First thing Cynical Me does with the new Miranda Lambert single (record's not due until September, so for now you should download from Amazon or the iLike) is pick at the overkill.  Flores por el muerte, bilge water, a limp string of burned-out off-season holiday lights, bald tires.  It's as if this woman doesn't have anything to do but sit around and equate her relationship with every slight imperfection in her den.  Our love is like how Channel Five never quite comes in right, and you keep playing with the rabbit ears and whacking the side of the set and promising we'll get a dish, et cetera.

Just now, while typing this, a virus update kicked in and knocked the CPU Usage up to 100% and the media player started skipping - skipping! - on the phrase "they're dead, they're dead, they're dead."  Jesus lady, pop a Xanax, pull out a step ladder, take the galdarned Christmas stuff down yourself.

It's working the other way, of course, and I'm a horrid insensitive dude for thinking backwards.  She's been soaking in sadness, the forecast is a beat-down, life is a state of decay.  Love's given up on her.  She's emotionally isolated, hubby's emotionally insulated; when she leaves - and inside she's already gone, staring in the rearview - he'll never figure out why.

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I'd never suggest that a combination of Ferguson and BritBrit could equal anything less than than doubleplussplooge, and it's great that the CBS moneymen broke down and slid Craig a 16 of Zomba juice.  (There had been an on-air plea, along with a complaint that Johnny Rotten refused to license "Pretty Vacant.")  I'm not going to suggest the routine's unspecial - the slow arm arc is classic, the telephone's a nice touch, the platinum wig and white suit are rad - but at this point I could use a Super Boost of something.  Shouldn't Gunther's lederhosen be cherry red?  Why are the little fluffy ones wearing the same bling as last time?

I'm calling on him to up the ante.  I want stiltwalkers and fire and exploding puppets.

He's only been doing this for, like, fifteen years:

Oh oh oh oh and lookee here (HT: ‘fiddle):

Pure yellow genius.  If only it were animated and life-sized and in my living room.

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Last month I mentioned that someone should bring the members of Rough Francis to the city to perform their Death show... and Joey Ramone's Birthday Bash is doing just that.  More than that, actually:  They've billed both RF and Death.  Both at once?  Interchangably?  Who knows.  Anyway, that's TONIGHT at Irving Plaza, and as usual there's a bunch of bands and friends-of sing-alongs and it's for charity.

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I haven't seen Gossip Girl for a long, long time.  When did they swap out Little J for a towering transsexual?  Not a complaint!

tags: miranda lambert  craig ferguson  

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