Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I/I Want/Want To/To Hold/Hold Your/Your Kankle/Kankle

Yet another truly far out youtube vid that the good foax at hey dullblog1 hipped me to — a side-by-side comparison of The Beatles' two performances of "I Want To Hold Your Hand" on February 9, 1964: the 4:30 taped version; and the version they performed live at 8:00. They sync up almost perfectly. I don't know why anyone would think to do this; and I don't know if anyone hereabouts other than me would find this interesting, but I consider it Groovy To Teh Extreme.

I was three when The Beatles performed for the first time on the Ed Sullivan Show.

No, I don't remember it. Because I'm old and the memory is the second thing to go2.

I'm sure all of my older sibs were gathered around the TV, though, because they all loved the Beatles and my brother Frank spent ALL the money he made on his paper route3 on records and he HAD to have Beatles and Stones stuff the DAY it came out.



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4.22-mile Kankle run this morning at a 10:24 pace, which is a LOT faster than it felt. As usual, I felt like giving up every minute of the run.
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1 Still Teh Awesomest Blog Name 4EVAH!1! I just wish those foax would post more often because when they do, it's always interesting; because they seem to find the grooviest videos of the Beatles, and when they write about the Beatles, it's always insightful. I still think the Literal Penny Lane video they found is one of the cleverest things I ever saw.

Horse Montage!

2 Possibly second, now that there's Viagra, aka "Limbaugh Pez."

3 For my younger readers — i.e., all of you — papers weren't always delivered at 6:00 in the morning by some old weird guy driving a 1987 Monte Carlo who throws the papers, wrapped in plastic, on your front lawn. Back in MY day, there used to be papers that came out in the afternoon — like The Philadelphia Bulletin — and they were delivered on bikes by underpaid pre-teen boys, like me, who had to walk each paper up to the front stoop and put it inside the screen door; and, every Friday, had to knock on doors and say "Collecting!" to whoever answered the door and get the people to pay you for last week's deliveries and you hoped they'd tip you because if they didn't you made basically fuck-all, like maybe a buck for the week. And a lot of the people didn't tip, the cheap fucks, but what was even worse was there were foax who dodged you, week after week, and NEVER paid what they owed, but when you got back to the branch (which is where you went to pick up the 40 or so papers that you had to deliver each day) on Saturday afternoon, you had to have your full "bill", which is what YOU owed for the papers. And if there were foax who didn't pay you, tough titties, Sherman, you were still responsible for what they owed. Because the branch manager — who was an adult and was a bit of a loser and probably the prototype for today's Guy In The 1987 Monte Carlo Who Makes His Living Delivering Papers — might let you short him for ONE week, but you'd better make it good the next week or be ready to be yelled at and/or threatened with the humiliation of being fired. (Of course when you were fired, they asked you to stay on until they could find your replacement and often asked you to aid in the search; and so for that search period you were a Dead Paperboy Walking (actually, D. P. Biking), and everyone knew it; and the only possible revenge you could wreak was to find a replacement who was even lamer than you as a paperboy, which wouldn't be easy because, face it, you were pretty lame.)

And so here you were, a 12 year old kid, carrying around a — no shit — little black book with all your customers' names in it and you had to keep track, from week to week, of who paid and who didn't. And when one of the deadbeats finally did answer the door, and you'd say, "Yeah, you owe me for two months", they'd say, "O, that can't be right! I remember paying you just a couple weeks ago. I couldn't owe you for more than 3 weeks." And then they'd make a big deal about scraping together the $2.10 it cost for three weeks' delivery of the Bulletin  — even though they owed you for EIGHT — and they'd give it to you and consider themselves square and then they WOULDN'T EVEN TIP YOU, the CHEAP FUCKS!1!

THIS WAS NO FUCKING WAY TO LIVE!1!1!!!

6 comments:

  1. Wow, so much screaming.

    I'm not a huge Beatles fan, but I find it amusing that when I cook I almost always end up humming Yellow Submarine to myself. I have no idea why but it's apparently my go-to song when there's silence.

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  2. Hey did you hear about Peter Tork? Still alive.

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  3. I guess I am officially old. I had a paper route as a kid, but delivered those papers before school.

    I had a little coupon book for each person - when they paid, I tore off the little paper coupon for them. I LOVED those people that paid a year at a time...

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  4. *hmpf* What is this, a secret blog society that is allowed to read the verbose ramblings of G? Yet another party my poor self has been excluded from?

    Then I get a nickname that will forever be confused with a highly infectious pulmonary disease?

    I am starting to feel like you don't love us trannies anymore....


    Paper boy diatribe? That was classic G. Although, I am not sure I was allowed to read it since I found this blog by ACCIDENT! (we trannies are a dramatic lot)

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  5. Feeling like giving up every minute of the run just makes you a typical runner. True story. Can't even remember the last time I ran without berating and cussing myself and asking, "Just what the fuck are you THINKING??!! Stop this nonsense, already!"

    Also, I musy be an old coot, too. I vividly remember my two older brothers having a paper route. They delivered this rag called "Teh Pennysaver", and we had to roll it up and put a rubber band around each paper so it'd fit in the box. Our hands would be black from the ink. I think they made all of $5 a week, none of which they shared with me...bastards.

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