What if I came knocking
On your front door some night?
Would you open the window
And drop me down the key?
What if I came knocking
On your bedpost that same night?
Would you open up your heart
Or try to get the best of me?
What if I came knocking
On your brain the next day
And ask for your truth and your love and your honesty?
Would you build up your big walls
And try to hide behind that smile
Or would you try to pull the wool right over me?
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came kicking
And it scared you a little bit
And I came on strong
Would you think
That there's something wrong with me?
Or could it be your fears
Of trying something real
Or just afraid to touch
A guy like me?
What if I came knocking?
What if I came knocking?
What if I came knocking
On your front door some night? Ah...
So let's just say it worked out
Like a storybook dream
And we lived happily ever after
Fa la la la
But what if I came crying
After just a few weeks
And said I misread my heart
This is not really meant to be? Yeah...
So if you hear some knocking
On your window tonight
You can bet that it's probably me
But let it be known
That we're just a pair of tumbling dice
And the outcome of these crap shoots
Is hard to see.
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came knocking?
So what if I came knocking
On your front door tonight? ahh
So what if I came knocking?
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knocking
Kick, kick, kick
What if I came knocking
On your front porch tonight, tonight?
- John Mellencamp
February 14, 2008
December 15, 2007
October 15, 2007
September 28, 2007
Happy birthday, Janeane Garofalo
I was sittin' there sellin' turnips on a flatbed truck
Crunchin' on a pork rind when she pulled up
She had to be thinkin' "This is where the rednecks come from."
She had Hollywood written on her license plate
She was lost and lookin' for the interstate
Needin' directions and I was the man for the job.
[Chorus]
I told her way up yonder past the caution light
There's a little country store with an old Coke sign
You gotta stop in and ask Miss Bell for some of her sweet tea
Then a left will take you to the interstate
But a right will bring you right back here to me.
I was sittin' there thinkin' 'bout her pretty face
Kickin' myself for not catchin' her name
I threw my hat... thought, "You fool, that coulda been love"
I knew my old Ford couldn't run her down
She probably didn't like me anyhow
So I watched her disappear into a cloud of dust.
[Chorus]
I told her way up yonder past the caution light
There's a little country store with an old Coke sign
You gotta stop in and ask Miss Bell for some of her sweet tea
Then a left will take you to the interstate
But a right will bring you right back here to me.
Is this Virginia heat playin' tricks on me
Or am I really seein' what I think I see
The woman of my dreams comin' back to me.
She went way up yonder past the caution light
Don't know why, but somethin' felt right
When she stopped in and asked Miss Bell for some of her sweet tea
Mama gave her a big ol' glass and sent her right back here to me
Thank God for good directions and turnip greens.
-- Billy Currington, "Good Directions"
Crunchin' on a pork rind when she pulled up
She had to be thinkin' "This is where the rednecks come from."
She had Hollywood written on her license plate
She was lost and lookin' for the interstate
Needin' directions and I was the man for the job.
[Chorus]
I told her way up yonder past the caution light
There's a little country store with an old Coke sign
You gotta stop in and ask Miss Bell for some of her sweet tea
Then a left will take you to the interstate
But a right will bring you right back here to me.
I was sittin' there thinkin' 'bout her pretty face
Kickin' myself for not catchin' her name
I threw my hat... thought, "You fool, that coulda been love"
I knew my old Ford couldn't run her down
She probably didn't like me anyhow
So I watched her disappear into a cloud of dust.
[Chorus]
I told her way up yonder past the caution light
There's a little country store with an old Coke sign
You gotta stop in and ask Miss Bell for some of her sweet tea
Then a left will take you to the interstate
But a right will bring you right back here to me.
Is this Virginia heat playin' tricks on me
Or am I really seein' what I think I see
The woman of my dreams comin' back to me.
She went way up yonder past the caution light
Don't know why, but somethin' felt right
When she stopped in and asked Miss Bell for some of her sweet tea
Mama gave her a big ol' glass and sent her right back here to me
Thank God for good directions and turnip greens.
-- Billy Currington, "Good Directions"
August 17, 2007
OMG! Janeane Garofalo is suffering from an impacted George Clooney!
OMG! Janeane Garofalo is suffering from an impacted George Clooney!
Originally uploaded by Stunted Growth
August 15, 2007
Attenzione: Mark Riley has left the Air America building
As breathlessly reported by BoreAmerica, Air America Radio has dropped Mark Riley from the network's lineup. Don't let the door hit your fat ass on the way out, Mark. If my calculations are correct, this leaves creepy talker Rachel Maddow as the last man standing -- haw, haw, haw -- of AAR's original talk show hosts. Ooops, I forgot Randi Rhodes, the Martha Mitchell of the American left.
Let's connect the dots, as they say in the counter-terrorism biz. I wrote postcard essays which I sent to media outlets such as The Nation. Editor Katrina vanden Heuvel read them and forwarded them to her friend, Janeane Garofalo, who after doing proposition research, decided that she liked me, she really liked me. Now a normal, healthy, well-adjusted person would then ask me out. As we all know, Janeane Garofalo is nothing if not normal, healthy, well-adjusted, and socially awkward. So rather than do anything straightforward, Ms. Garofalo engaged in a Cyrano de Bergerac campaign of stalking harassment romance consisting of one part "The Truth about Cats and Dogs" and the other part "Sweethearts" in the hope that I would reciprocate. Did I mention that Janeane Garofalo is nothing if not normal, healthy, and well-adjusted?
Through her proxies familiars and an essay I wrote, Ms. Garofalo learned that I was an admirer of Catherine Bell -- and what normal, healthy, well-adjusted hetero American male wouldn't be? Imagine Ms. Garofalo's consternation. Ms. Bell is tall, toned, and young. Janeane Garofalo is none of those things. Ms. Bell has a splendiferous set of boobs. Ms. Garofalo had hers removed as a part of her ongoing plastic surgery/self-mutilation/self-and-gender-hatred syndrome. Oh, well, there's always Plan B -- or is that Plan D? Janeane Garofalo is a tattooed skank. Catherine Bell is neither. Catherine Bell shaves her pits and pubes. The only area of her body that Janeane Garofalo shaves is her upper lip. Except for Scientology, Ms. Bell seems be to refreshingly -- ahem -- normal, healthy, and well-adjusted. Ms. Garofalo, on the other hand, has more baggage than Arianna Huffington checking into the Plaza, including an Electra complex as big as a house.
What to do? What to do? Ms. Garofalo arranges for my collector's edition of FHM with Catherine Bell to disappear from my apartment. And I get an anonymous envelope from Janeane with the Scientology shill piece that Catherine Bell sends to fans who write her. Having done her homework, Garofalo knows that will put me off Bell. Come to think of it, now that Janeane Garofalo has announced she believes 9/11 was an inside job, the only difference in the tin foil hats they're wearing is the number of layers. The part that had me stumped: how did Janeane manage to get a indecipherable postmark on the envelope so I couldn't tell where it came from? Plausible deniability was a part of the fun and games. The missing piece in this puzzle, of course, was Mark Riley, who used to work at the United States Postal Service and still has friends who do.
Of course, this sort of stunt has got to be a violation of the law, but then, Mark is a fan of thug-for-life and Castro-wannabe Hugo Chavez, who is nothing if not a follower of the rule of law. Riley may be a member of the Episcopal Church vestry, but they must have forgotten to supply him with a set of ethics or a refresher course in the Golden Rule. Mark found Ms. Garofalo's use of proxies to enter my apartment and invade my privacy amusing. Warrantless, illegal searches by the FBI and NSA are a no-no but fellow talk show hosts on Air America get a pass. Would Mark, his wife, and 10-year-old daughter find it funny if strangers sneaked into their home and snooped around? Of course not. Empathy - try it some time, dickhead.
Anyhoo, what goes around, comes around. I won't see ya, Mark. Wouldn't want to be ya. Mark Riley is an African-American, diabetic, overweight ex-smoker -- and out-of-work. As they say in the actuary business, do the math. I expect the life of Riley will be a relatively short one. I won't make it to your funeral, Mark, but maybe I will get around to pissing on your grave one day, though. At the very least, I've laid out a plot spot in the Air America Hall of Shame, right next to Sam "Scumbag" Seder. And what ever happened to Seder, anyway? No worries, mate. No matter where he is, you can be sure that he's assiduously kissing someone's ass at this very moment, becos that's what you gotta do when you're no-talent hack in show biz.
This leaves us with Katrina vanden Heuvel, whose self-righteousness flows like a mighty river to the sea. If America's energy reserves were as abundant as Katrina's stores of lefty piety, then the United States wouldn't have to worry about energy independence. As they used to say about another sociopath given to CREEPing around, what did Katrina know about Ms. Garofalo's shenanigans and when did she know it? I smell, if not a rat, then the odor of sanctimony gone bad or another case of Selective Moral Outrage. Does Katrina regret her failure to let sleeping cats and dogs lie? No worries, mate. If she doesn't already, she will. As I always say, with Janeane Garofalo as your friend, who needs enemies?
Let's connect the dots, as they say in the counter-terrorism biz. I wrote postcard essays which I sent to media outlets such as The Nation. Editor Katrina vanden Heuvel read them and forwarded them to her friend, Janeane Garofalo, who after doing proposition research, decided that she liked me, she really liked me. Now a normal, healthy, well-adjusted person would then ask me out. As we all know, Janeane Garofalo is nothing if not normal, healthy, well-adjusted, and socially awkward. So rather than do anything straightforward, Ms. Garofalo engaged in a Cyrano de Bergerac campaign of stalking harassment romance consisting of one part "The Truth about Cats and Dogs" and the other part "Sweethearts" in the hope that I would reciprocate. Did I mention that Janeane Garofalo is nothing if not normal, healthy, and well-adjusted?
Through her proxies familiars and an essay I wrote, Ms. Garofalo learned that I was an admirer of Catherine Bell -- and what normal, healthy, well-adjusted hetero American male wouldn't be? Imagine Ms. Garofalo's consternation. Ms. Bell is tall, toned, and young. Janeane Garofalo is none of those things. Ms. Bell has a splendiferous set of boobs. Ms. Garofalo had hers removed as a part of her ongoing plastic surgery/self-mutilation/self-and-gender-hatred syndrome. Oh, well, there's always Plan B -- or is that Plan D? Janeane Garofalo is a tattooed skank. Catherine Bell is neither. Catherine Bell shaves her pits and pubes. The only area of her body that Janeane Garofalo shaves is her upper lip. Except for Scientology, Ms. Bell seems be to refreshingly -- ahem -- normal, healthy, and well-adjusted. Ms. Garofalo, on the other hand, has more baggage than Arianna Huffington checking into the Plaza, including an Electra complex as big as a house.
What to do? What to do? Ms. Garofalo arranges for my collector's edition of FHM with Catherine Bell to disappear from my apartment. And I get an anonymous envelope from Janeane with the Scientology shill piece that Catherine Bell sends to fans who write her. Having done her homework, Garofalo knows that will put me off Bell. Come to think of it, now that Janeane Garofalo has announced she believes 9/11 was an inside job, the only difference in the tin foil hats they're wearing is the number of layers. The part that had me stumped: how did Janeane manage to get a indecipherable postmark on the envelope so I couldn't tell where it came from? Plausible deniability was a part of the fun and games. The missing piece in this puzzle, of course, was Mark Riley, who used to work at the United States Postal Service and still has friends who do.
Of course, this sort of stunt has got to be a violation of the law, but then, Mark is a fan of thug-for-life and Castro-wannabe Hugo Chavez, who is nothing if not a follower of the rule of law. Riley may be a member of the Episcopal Church vestry, but they must have forgotten to supply him with a set of ethics or a refresher course in the Golden Rule. Mark found Ms. Garofalo's use of proxies to enter my apartment and invade my privacy amusing. Warrantless, illegal searches by the FBI and NSA are a no-no but fellow talk show hosts on Air America get a pass. Would Mark, his wife, and 10-year-old daughter find it funny if strangers sneaked into their home and snooped around? Of course not. Empathy - try it some time, dickhead.
Anyhoo, what goes around, comes around. I won't see ya, Mark. Wouldn't want to be ya. Mark Riley is an African-American, diabetic, overweight ex-smoker -- and out-of-work. As they say in the actuary business, do the math. I expect the life of Riley will be a relatively short one. I won't make it to your funeral, Mark, but maybe I will get around to pissing on your grave one day, though. At the very least, I've laid out a plot spot in the Air America Hall of Shame, right next to Sam "Scumbag" Seder. And what ever happened to Seder, anyway? No worries, mate. No matter where he is, you can be sure that he's assiduously kissing someone's ass at this very moment, becos that's what you gotta do when you're no-talent hack in show biz.
This leaves us with Katrina vanden Heuvel, whose self-righteousness flows like a mighty river to the sea. If America's energy reserves were as abundant as Katrina's stores of lefty piety, then the United States wouldn't have to worry about energy independence. As they used to say about another sociopath given to CREEPing around, what did Katrina know about Ms. Garofalo's shenanigans and when did she know it? I smell, if not a rat, then the odor of sanctimony gone bad or another case of Selective Moral Outrage. Does Katrina regret her failure to let sleeping cats and dogs lie? No worries, mate. If she doesn't already, she will. As I always say, with Janeane Garofalo as your friend, who needs enemies?
August 14, 2007
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About Me
- Chris Martin
- "...the quintessential everyman, he's a little bit of everything that we're all striving for... mostly the search for the truth in our lives. From poignant notions of love to our own inescapable lascivious tendencies, from mundane to the outlandish, on that journey we face tough questions, but even tougher decisions. He'll take you on his journey and back, he won't promise you enlightenment (who can?), but you can at least be assured of a good time. Thanks..." - boyzco