Saturday, June 8, 2013

How many c***'s could a c***-s***er s*** if a c***-s***er could s*** c***s?

When you're young and innocent and unaware yet of your own unique personality, you do things, say things, live things (?) without fear of consequence because you inherently just KNOW that everyone is like you: NOT like you, to an extent. Meaning, like you in that every individual is exactly that.
For example: in early elementary school (or all of elementary school),  there was "Show & Tell". You bring something to school, like a flower, or a picture of your mom, or a Barbie doll, or your new Knight Rider lunchbox with David Hasellbach's face on the thermos-thing, or you just point at your shoes, and then tell something about the whatever.

So in Grade 4 I brought in my working miniature model of a guillotine. "This is a gilloteen. The man lays down here all tied up, and then you bring the blade up [it was made out of lead, for the weight/striking action] with this string and then um, you let the string go and um..." and the little lead blade falls and the tiny man's head [red paint splashed around the neck] pops off into the little basket with a rattle.

The substitute teacher sort of looked nervous but smiled and said something like, "Hey that's really neat! Umm.... Nancy? Dear, what did you bring?" (pretty sure it was a Barbie doll). This was the same sub who earlier in the year turned off the lights in the portable-classroom unit and then played the track from Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon", the track with all the sound effects and screaming and "I know that I'm mad, I've always been mad..." and then asked us to write down our thoughts afterwards.  
So thought that my model death machine would have impressed her into bringing to reality whatever pre-adolescent, pre-sexual fantasies I had of her. Nope. No being kidnapped and fed a diet of candy and Alpha-ghetti while watching cartoons forever and ever. (I really want to dive into that whole grey area period of life where you fantasize about whoever you're attracted to, that little window before you know about sex? And it's full of oddball undeveloped fetishes that either fade out of memory or stay with you, either repressed as a guilty "perversion" or shamelessly flaunted by walking around in a giant teddy bear outfit (I don't do that). But yeah, some other time.)

That was most likely the first time where something that I thought was totally awesome was regarded with... oh how about 'lack of enthusiasm', by my peers. (It'd make a manifestly cooler tale to say my parents were Addams-Family-esque and bought the model kit for me with earnest encouragement to one day level up, but the blame goes towards my Mom's brother, uncle Denny, who was the resident Black Sheep of that side of the family: when I was like eight or whatever age you are in grade four he gave me a huge box of original Aurora "Universal Movie Monster" models [all 1961-1964] - all completed and masterfully painted - along with about 40lbs-worth of "Famous Monsters of Filmland" and CarToons/Hot Rod Cartoons/Drag Cartoons magazines from the early-mid-'60s. Also the first four (and only) issues of "Big Daddy Roth" magazine which was put out by Pete Millar, the dude behind early CarToons and later his own Drag Cartoons, but my A-hole brother stole those and sold them some decades back. Today the Roth mag's can go to $100 apiece. Vengeance shall be mine....) 
Sure, once the shock wore off and they were reasonably sure I wasn't going to "show" them a butcher's knife not from a model kit, they gathered around with morbid fascination. But you get that from everyday people at a highway accident or the ubiquitous American school shootings/bullet-festivals.

Another way of going about the discovery that you're stepping outside the traditional margins (or careening back and forth drunken-insanely across five lanes) is by releasing some music that the general populace ignores, or runs screaming from while dropping all personal belongings in hopes that the flailing beast behind them becomes distracted long enough for them to hide safely.

I think this may be one of the latter. Contrary to the mentality of the status quo, though, the latter is quite a good thing.
Tripping over the corpse of HAIR's salad days (and from that magical era before AIDS and a fear-mongering media) in a sexual frenzy of most likely unequal proportions comes (...frequently!) Phil Oesterman, Earl Wilson, and Billy Cunningham's "Let My People Come" from 1974, obviously a take on 'Let my people go' and a self-purposed body-liberating musical celebrating every single aspect of squishy wet human rubbin's. Just try to find another recording with a chorus of "Gurgle, slurp!", and email me when you do. I wrote something else concerning this release right here, if you care to do a bit of scrolling.
I hope you do, because I go into a tad more detail there, if in a more frenetic and evidently drunken way. Suffice it to say, this ain't for the prudish, so there's the warning if everything else in this write-up didn't hint at that already.

Astonishingly, this thing has very recently been off-Broadway revived as of this past February. I just wonder if the music had been updated. If anyone managed to see this, please leave a note on the experience! 

Now if you don't mind, I'm off to tap me some Jack Daniels.

Track Listing:

Opening Number    
Give It To Me    
I'm Gay    
Come In My Mouth    
Dirty Words    
Linda, Georgina, Marilyn & Me    
I Believe My Body    
Take Me Home With You    
Choir Practice    
And She Loved Me    
The Cunnilingus Champion Of Co. C    
Doesn't Anybody Love Anymore    
Let My People Come

Download here:

(PS - The post title is an actual line from the recording)