No Music Wednesday

Not much of a post today, I'm afrait, because I may have just won a free stay at the Marriot of my choosing (more on my disappointment in this fraud tomorrow) and I need to prep for this. No, I'm just trying to catch up on a bunch of music and news myself and In order to keep this blog the shining star of mediocrity that it is, I need to keep up to date. Anyways, more crazy dreams last night (this one about a neighbor I had as a kid and his dad, who openly hated me). I'm starting to think it has something to do with the weather. or waking up freezing cold, turning the fan off, then waking up all sweaty and waking up to turn the fan on, over and over and over. So whatever, I'm exhausted and still counting down the days until I get my damned weekend. Rediscovered this poem last night and was floored by it. Consider it the song of the day:

Steps

How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget's steeple leaning a little to the left

here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting's not so blue

where's Lana Turner
she's out eating
and Garbo's backstage at the Met
everyone's taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park's full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we're all winning
we're alive

the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building's no longer rivaled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)

and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining

oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

-Frank O-Hara (1961)

such a beautiful work, just bursting with life and the sort of thing that makes you wanna ry after reading something like:

"O'Hara died in an accident on Fire Island in 1966. He was run over by a dune buggy while on the beach late at night with friends. He is buried in Springs Cemetery on Long Island."

Sigh. Oh what the fuck, here's a Minutemen show from Philly in December of 1984. Because they were awesome and haunted my dreams 2 nights ago. It's completely incredible.