I’m gonna take this as a sign: today I’m posting a series of songs that mean something to me. They’re not so much favorites as demarcation points. Here’s the first one. I listened to this song on my headphones in the car before attending my father’s funeral. I wasn’t consciously thinking about listening to this song, as I had been too busy to listen to anything since I got the news, and this was the last thing playing on the clunky portable CD player I duct-taped to my hip while buffing hallways, but I wanted to hear something before I went in. There’s a lot I can say about this song symbolically but I want to leave that alone (for now); I suspect you can draw the connections yourself. My father’s funeral was a full Catholic mass, most of which I do not remember, though I kept trying to pay attention and remain present: I could only sleep when I ate klonopin and had dreams that we had lost his corpse and had to find it before the funeral. At this point I was pretty numb, and afterwards I didn’t really listen to much music for a while: at work I played old WOR recordings of Jean Shepherd.
in the dream I had I was the star of a hit TV show called Brokeula about an ex-con “reformed” vampire with pulled fangs and monthly suppression injections after his parole visits who now lives in a storage unit and tells stories of his glory days. It’s all shot cinema verite’ style and I guess was adapted from a radio show along the same lines (I guess like This American Death) and I talk about how I was a cannibal for the CIA in the sixties before starting a corpse eating cult in Mexico and becoming a hip “blood artist” in NYC when I got busted and got sent upstate to take the cure. It was pretty detailed, and were it not for the fact that the last thing the world needs is another vampire story I might take a run at it.