Spent a couple hours this afternoon listening to loud music with inappropriate lyrics, while Bootiful Princess was at preschool.
It started out with me digging through dusty piles of cassettes, looking for a homemade copy of Jello Biafra's "night of the living rednecks", where he describes being attacked on West Burnside, by some fratboyish guys in a big truck.
I told Maxwell about this and he naturally was interested, but sadly I couldn't find the tape and thought better of the idea, anyway, lest there be any blue material unsuitable for a little kid (regardless of how precocious.
Now Mark is looking over my shoulder as I write this and telling a long involved story about meeting the guy that did the artwork for the controversial "frankenchrist" album.
Mark says "he is a very cool guy. Super sweet."
OK, there you go, then! Who knew?)
But then I was sort of in the mood for something rowdy- There is nothing like country-punk to clean the toilet to, let me tell you!
So I busted out the Violent Femmes...
I still get a thrill out of "old mother reagan", even though old ronny is dead and gone and hopefully suffered in the end...