Christmas Makes Me Sick

I'm surprised I never posted this. It dates back to just before I started the blog, I think. Here 'tis:

Christmas Makes Me Sick

This time every year, Santa comes down the flue.
Meanwhile, just to be parallel, I contract the flu.
Santa hands out presents every Christmastime.
Me, I deliver germs and coughs and buckets of nasal slime, 'cause

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.
I'm full of Christmas goo.

Gonna live in a Christmas bubble,
a festive plastic home.
I won't let Santa in unless he disinfects his gnomes.
Please don't bring me presents.
In fact, don't come at all.
I'm fine here alone in my plastic home drinking germ-proof alcohol, cause

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.
I'm coughing up fondue.

Asian! Avian! Spanish! Fun!
It's killed more than World War I.
The grippe, the croup, the hacking cough,
knocking half of Europe off.
Russian, swine and Hong Kong hit.
Thank you, antigenic shift.
Nature wracks its fiendish brains
to deck the halls with new flu strains.

Christmas makes me sick.
Christmas makes me sick.
Every year a fever visits just before old Saint Nick.
Christmas makes me cough.
Christmas makes me spew.
Don't talk to me about peace and joy.

New Recording: My Baby Hates Christmas

Click here to get your own player.

New Recording, Old Technology: Bein' the Man Blues

I finished my first viable cigar box guitar last night and celebrated by recording a quick Bein' the Man Blues.

The Left Stomock is almost a year old now. The year's output consists of 17 song lyrics, about 13 of which exist as some sort of recorded monstrosity. This leads us to say, "Khosighingda aghrighing bolmisa, tavuz yeyixtin khorkhma."

Gutcasting

Can't get enough of that precious, precious gut? Subscribe to the Stomock gutcast at http://capnstomock.podomatic.com/. It's like a feeding tube delivering pure flavor (flavour, even) from our guts directly to yours.

It's Not Russia

Centralizing power,
waging war against secession
via rampant nostalgia
for imperial aggression.

Amid currency crises,
and regional depressions,
conspicuous consumption
of material posessions.

Baby, times are hard
in the land that was the land of the Tsars,
so the past looks better
than it ever really was.

But, baby, it's not Russia... it's us.

An aging population starts
to think about birth rates,
the future of the nation
if it fails to procreate.

Riots...
breaking out on the fringes.
Growing concern
about alcohol binges.

Baby, times are hard
in the land that was the land of the Tsars,
so the past looks better
than it ever really was.

But, baby, it's not Russia... it's us.

Written & recorded in one shot this evening, without bothering to tune my guitar, divert from my usual guitar strumming mode & progression, or change from the default echo patch on my vocal processor. Enjoy.

Updates

Well, the 7-days-7-songs experiment blew chunks. We can blame my mom for having a blood clot halfway through, but in all honesty I had a creative clot before that. Neither was fatal, thankfully. Mom's back home... back at work, even. Yeesh, mom.

Here's a new draft of Why Am I Here? thanks to Righthand Stomock Bryan, who added bass, backing vocals, and groovy guitar floaters.

Speaking of the Righthand Stomock, here's one of the songs he recorded last week: Toe Jam of the Devil. As its subject matter would suggest, it's sublime.

Day 4 Status

Three songs written, one recorded, another with a rough guitar track down (that may or may not work in the light of mornin'). So I'm one lyric and 2.25 recordings behind schedule on day four.

Onward pagan soldiers.

Recording 1: Why Am I Still Here?

Day three: two songs written, one recorded to my low standards.

Why Am I Here?

Got titles you want made into songs? Post 'em in the comments.

Song 2: A Foundation in the Blues

I'm not much of a rebel.
I don't own no blue suede shoes.
I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.

I don't know much about drugs.
Sex scares me through and through.
I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.

Doo-wop won't admit me.
I can't ride the New Wave.
I'm more Elmo than Emo.
And Christian Rock makes me feel unsaved.
I can't afford the Grunge wardrobe.
The same thing goes for Goth.
I'd try to ride on the Jam Rock line,
but I know I'd just want off.

I've never choked on vomit,
despite all the chunks I blew.
I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.

I've got one thing in common with rock & roll:
a foundation in the blues.

Song 1: Why Am I Still Here?

I said I'd find another job.
Tender my resignation.
I planned my moves. I told my friends.
Then I cashed another paycheck.
I said I'd quit when I had savings,
when I paid my student loans.
I'd flick 'em the finger
out the driver's window,
once I could afford a car.

So why
am I

still at the law firm?

I said I'd quit when I made partner.
Tender my resignation.
I planned my moves. I told my friends.
Then I cashed another paycheck.
I said I'd quit and buy a boat,
when I'd put away the cash.
An aquatic blender
and those styrofoam things,
so I could drink without fear of sinking.

So why
am I

still at the law firm?

7 Songs In 7 Days?

Yes, that's right. I'm going to write and record seven songs this week. Watch the quality, already at local Chinese take-out levels, reach as-yet-unanalogized depths.

Wish me luck. Listen along if you wish. I may even post multiple drafts of each "tune" to maximize your suffering.

Wheee.

dannylujackson.jpg

dannylujackson.jpg
Originally uploaded by dtaciuch.

Relevant lyric: "Yahee hee hee."

Uke Troop

Rifle on his shoulder,
Ukulele in his hand.
Who could stand before such a soldier?
Who could face such a dangerous man?

Rifle on his shoulder,
Ukulele in his hand.
Ladies wink behind their chadoras,
but he's a family man.
Sorry, ladies. He's a family man.

Rifle on his shoulder,
Ukulele in his hand.

Listen to it if you dare.

For Seth, Matt's buddy in Iraq. Thank you, Ukes for Troops.