I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I have a problem with poetry. Poetic talk is full of hyperbole, and it tends to get in the way. You take a perfectly ordinary line, such as Was there ever a time, when I didn’t know you? Nothing particularly wrong there the poet is merely suggesting that all time before meeting this person is irrelevant. However, if I try saying that, a little imp pops up and says “Well fuck-cakes, do you remember her at your fifth birthday? No? Were you disappointed she wasn’t there? No? Holy fucking shit! We have an answer. Yes, there was a time you didn’t know her… ya stupid twat dropping.”
I tend to hear that little imp when I’m trying to read poetry as well, because I figure everyone else must have these voices in their heads from time to time. I doubt everyone else has the constant din I do, and probably less profanity, but I still suspect. As a result, when I do try to read poetry (which isn’t very often these days) I hear the sighing, restless, irritated voice of this imp. Then the swearing starts, and once it gets going, it rarely stops.
And I’m not talking about love poetry, which is almost always embarrassing and stupid. First World War poets, Greek Classics, Fourteenth Century Monks, Even the works of people like Poe… they all get hit with the same “You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” stick. It could be that I just don’t like poetry much.
You remember the song It’s My Party? It’s been bugging me because I’ve heard it more than a few times lately.
Okay, the girl is bugged because her BF Johnny left her for Judy. I get that. However! She goes on about wanting him back and… why? Why does she want Johnny back? In the sequel, she gets him back and she’s so glad because she beat Judy, but honestly, why does she want him back? He’s just going to leave for some other chick the next chance he gets.
Had that giurl had a sassy gay friend, the world of pop music would have changed dramatically. Just imagine Graham Norton’s voice here… “Oh sweetie. Look at you, you’re lovely. So he decided to go fuck Judy. Well, let him. Either he’s going to get bored with her and start banging Helen on the side or Judy’s going to work out he’s not such a catch anyway. Besides, now is the time to start talking with Val. I mean look at him. He’s GORGOUS! And I think he’s been wait for a moment like this. Go talk to him. Go, go on. I’ll wait here.”* I think we should pass a law, requiring every person who might become a songwriter to have a sassy gay friend on hand for all important life moments.
There are many songs that would have been changed for the better. Just think of how different Convoy would have been if there was some guy in pink taffeta to talk down The Rubber Duck.
*In 1962, this was hugely sassy talk.
Valentine’s Day bugs me because I find the whole thing creepy. See, according to the legend, St. Valentine (of which there are at least two BTW) performed lots of marriages in Rome when Rome was all paganny and shit. As he’s called SAINT Valentine, you can guess he wasn’t a paganny type person. So St. V had to go, and he was scheduled to be executed because he refused to obey the law and stop marrying people.
NOW! While he languished in jail, he totally fell for the jailer’s hot jail-bait daughter. Falling for jail-bait was less of a problem in those days, unless you were going to have your head on the block in a couple of days, but they still managed to “Do It” and stuff. So yeah, they were totally in love and he wrote her a note saying how she had great tits and a butt that won’t quit and whatever it is that chicks find romantic. He then signed it “Your Valentine” because he was all cool like that.
Well, what with being killed and having to change his address and one thing and another, he didn’t get to deliver the note. So, according to the story, the Romans delivered it for him. Guessing from the descriptions of her great rack and his admiration for her ability to deep throat, the Romans decided she was as likely as anyone to be his next of kin. Being his next of kin, they delivered the note and his head. Which is nice, not sure how we went from a head as a gift to a heart shaped box of chocolate, but whatev.
So really, when you say “Be my Valentine” what you are asking is “Defy the law, piss off your local emperor, get yourself executed, and have your head delivered to me.” Because nothing says undying devotion like… you know… dying.
Some of you might complain that I’m arguing a false point, since most of what I just told you is bullshit. That whole legend was made up, almost entirely, centuries later. As I said, there are two St. Valentines, neither of their stories have any particular romantic connection, and the celebration of VD as a romantic thing really only dates back to around the early 15th century. Even then you have to wait until the 18th century to get any real sense of celebration in the modern understanding. So why does it still bother me?
It has become a case of can’t unhear this shit. I see those cardboard hearts filled with chocolate and all I can think of is that they should really be head shaped. Since most things people do for VD is based on some bullshit idea of romantic entanglement, the fact that the story it’s based on is also bullshit bothers me less. So all I end up hearing is girls saying to their boyfriends, “You never get killed by the state to prove your love for me.” and in a way it follows the sinking suspicion I’ve always had about women from the medieval period on when talking about romance. I think they’re using the idea of romance to try and kill or bankrupt the men around them. “If you really loved me you’d go fight that other knight, go on the crusades, drive a motorcycle without a helmet, tame a lion using only a dog leash, kill a dragon with a toothpick, kill yourself some other way while I end up fucking some douche with a guitar and a stupid haircut.” Yeah, I’m looking at you ya fucking troubadours.
He’s not really sad, he was chasing a black squirrel and having a hell of a lot of fun, but I wanted to use that title.