Friday, October 25, 2013

I'm Channeling The Electric Prunes

This from one of my favorite photographers -- Mary Jane O'Malley.  This is my Uncle Sam sculpture during its very early days -- just a couple of things written on it -- standing behind the bar at Bacchus Wood Fired Pizza.  Those were simpler times.  Nobody had ripped the poor guy's head off yet.

Worth noting:  I've had nights when bars actually looked like this, but I've calmed down lately.

Last night your shadow fell upon my lonely room
I touched your golden hair and tasted your perfume
Your eyes were filled with love the way they used to be
Your gentle hand reached out to comfort me, know
Then came the dawn and you were gone
And you were gone, gone, gone

I had too much to dream last night
Too much to dream
I'm not ready to face the light
I had too much to dream
Last night, last night

The room was empty as I staggered from my bed
I could not bear the image racing through my head
You were so real that I could feel your eagerness
And when you raised your lips for me to kiss
Came the dawn and you were gone
And you were gone, gone, gone

I had too much to dream last night
Too much to dream
I'm not ready to face the light
I had too much to dream
Last night, last night

I had too much to dream last night
Too much to dream
I'm not ready to face the light
I had too much to dream
Last night, last night
Oh too much to dream
Oh too much to dream

I had too much to dream last night
Oh too much to dream
Yes I had too much to dream
I had too much to dream

In addition to being a masterpiece of psychodelica, the song speaks directly to the notion that soon they are going to auction my Uncle Sam off and I'll never see him again.  Whenever I roll up a painting and get ready to ship it, I always whisper into the tube: "Don't ever let anybody tell you you're not a great painting."  Then I tape it shut and head for the UPS store.  But it's always a bittersweet moment.

I bet the money helps.
Yes it does.
I'm not convinced that Too Much To Dream is a masterpiece of psychodelica.  If that's even a word.
Perhaps not.  But it's what I thought of when I saw Mary Jane's photo.  And one's first instincts are sometimes the best ones.
Sometimes not.  I would have gone with Tommy James' Crimson and Clover.
That's a stupid song.
Says you.

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