Thursday, April 20, 2006

on muhammad ali (aka the goat)

float like a butterfly, etc... and then in the final round sell out like a no-good cracker pop queen

it was reported late last week that muhammad ali has sold his name and image to CKX for $50m
and so it ends

CKX recently bought 19 Entertainment, the company who gave us the spice girls and s club 7, and also have a marketing deal with david and victoria beckham

fitting company for the Greatest Of All Time

while ali's demise has been long and painful to watch, this final capitulation is ugly and unexpected

and its effect on his legacy - which at this stage is all the poor bastard has - will long outlast $50m at the rate ali is known to spend, and will long outlive ali himself

an image, once sold to a machine like CKX, is lost forever

and this is a dangerous situation for anyone, especially a man like ali, to find themselves in

CKX claim, of course, that they won't use ali's name or image in any way that would either demean his legacy or offend his religious beliefs

dandy

ali claims that the deal will "help guarantee that, for generations to come, people of all nations will understand [his] beliefs purpose"

which are/is what, exactly?

ali is idealised as a cultural and political force, which in some respects is a cosy misrepresentation of the realities of his involvement in different movements throughout the years

while the strength of principle shown when ali flung his olympic medal in the ohio river in 1960 is admirable, (he was twice refused service in a louisville diner because of his race), this is also a man who went on record in support of racial segregation

ali taking this position was perhaps a backlash response to years of discrimination suffered at the hands of american society, and knowing what we do of him, was likely his way of stirring the debate

but a white boxer (or a white anything) couldn't possibly have voiced this opinion and subsequently been made a UN Messenger of Peace

his anti-war position has been dismissed in a biography by mark kram as "peripheral, a college-kid issue that he tolerated and used"

he also had (has?) a questionable attitude towards women

there's no denying ali's intelligence, because it takes great intelligence to manipulate the media and the public as brilliantly as he has done

but while this penchant for manipulation - when taken with some of his idealistic stances - aren't attractive characteristics, and like or loathe his political positions in general, you nonetheless have to respect his unwavering determination and purpose throughout the 60s and 70s to be remembered as the Greatest

his official biographer, thomas hauser, said of this:

Great men are considered great not only because of what they achieve, but also because of the road they travel to reach their final destination. Ali stood up for his convictions and sacrificed a great deal for them. So why hide the true nature of what his principles were?

which is largely my point - you don't have to like someone's principles, but don't sugar coat them for the easy sell

CKX, its safe to assume, won't be taking on the complete ali, with his many personal failings - there's will be the sanitised Champ, the hero of what's right, martin luther king with boxing gloves, ghandi on caffeine pills

and so not only has ali sold his image, he has also banished the true ideals once associated with that image - the things he stood for, for better or worse

only those willing to read biographies will know the real ali; the rest will see the dumbed-down, airbrushed version on whatever tack CKX want to flog next week

or next year

or the next 50years
___________________________________________________
I have seen the greatest fighters end up living in rooming houses, picking up cans to get the deposits. I have seen champions who are now indigent, depressed, deranged, emotionally troubled, in need of professional help.
(Jack Newfield - The Shame of Boxing - The Nation, October 25, 2001)

boxing is hopelessly corrupt and pugilists often take a more brutal beating outside the ring than in

their abuse at the hands of managers, promoters, et al, mean that many are often reduced to physical and financial ruin and are forced at a relatively young age in to menial circumstances that ill-reflect the athletic prowess they once had

this has been allowed to continue for decades, mainly because it plays to the interests of those that control boxing - promoters, big tv networks, the usual suspects

(i'd cite examples if i had time and thought anyone read this fucking thing)

in this regard it's probably no coincidence that the majority of boxers are either black or latino

a white boy wouldn't be expected to take a beating like this

nor would a black white or yellow dude playing, say, baseball, stand for it - there are safeguards in other sports, and rightly so, to protect the interests of the players

and sure, fella, the companies make money off of 'em, but the fans would be up in arms if their boys weren't bein' seen to proper

who knows, congress might even get involved

but boxing was and is the sport of the working class, and the working class has a tendency to open wide when Big Money undoes its zipper

fuck CKX and fuck ali's "beliefs and purpose"

if he wants to be remembered, in boxing circles or elsewhere, as something other than a man who was great, boxed longer than he should have and sold himself, literally and figuratively, to a marketing giant, he should be working for reforms in the sport that will spare this and subsequent generations of boxers the ignominious end he now faces

if you're gonna put your name to something, don't let it be a museum in your honour - which is due to open in louisville in the near future - or a video game, or runners, or whatever shit CKX has in mind

use your standing in the sporting world to lobby for greater protection for young boxers, inside and out of the ring

work to bring in stricter medical controls in fights at all levels to stop young athletes having their brains beaten to pulp in the name of entertainment

work to stop them being preyed upon by scumbag promoters who couldn't care less what happens to their fighters - fighters who'll stay on their feet for 15savage rounds rather than break the honour code, and then collapse with brain bleeding afterwards

or, now that the deal is done, use some of your $50m to set up a medical centre for the basket cases that your sport creates

or build support housing for the suckers that took the beatings but never made it, and now live in squalor

put your fucking name on that, if you like
___________________________________________________
when hunter thompson interviewed ali in 1978 he had just been defeated by leon spinks

in the context of that time, ali's defeat in vegas by this young, unknown brawler was tragic, and thompson's article captures the sense of anxiety that the Greatest was a spent force

ali had been around nearly two decades - spinks had never boxed beyond ten rounds and had only seven professional bouts to his name

reading now the report of what ali has done, i briefly found myself wishing a horrible wish - that leon spinks had beaten him to death the first time, that ali had died in the ring a two-time world champion, an imperfect but untarnished image of physical and idealistic strength

but who am i to wish that...

and besides, it probably wouldn't have saved ali

dying young works for some, but not all

it's done wonders for jim morrison, john lennon, jimmy dean, marilyn monroe, kurt cobain - and while they've each since been marketed to varying degrees, their premature exits have instilled a sense of mystery and wonder in their short, bright lives, and their images have been forever preserved in the common cultural psyche in shades of eternal youth

but elvis died young too, and although granted he wasn't in his prime and was never what you'd call a social or political force, his rape by cheap marketing still saddens the heart

oh, and CKX?

they own elvis, too

When I'm gone, boxing will be nothing again. The fans with the cigars and hats turned down'll be there, but no more housewives and little men in the street and foreign presidents. It's goin' to be back to the fighter who comes to town, smells a flower, visits a hospital, blows a horn and says he's in shape. Old hat. I was the onliest boxer in history people asked questions like a senator.
(Muhammad Ali, 1967)

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

on suri

you hate tom cruise

you've hated him from a very early age

you were one of a presumably small number of children who wished he was shot down in top gun...

...actually shot down, killed

and hit the wall at speed in days of glory...

...seriously, scraped out of a twisted wreckage, for real

and had his skull cracked open like an egg by a stray bottle of bacardi in cocktail (cock tale?)...

...you would give your right ball for this footage, if it existed

you've just always found everything about him, well, offensive

and he's a scientologist

which is a problem, because scientology is one of several religions that should be wiped off the planet

tom cruise is someone you generally try to not think about

on the other hand, you really had a thing for katie holmes when you were a kid

(big BIG girl next door fan)

in fact, between katie's character (joey) in dawson's creek and danica mc kellar (winnie) in the wonder years, you're probably doomed to spend your life looking for an ideal that you don't actually want to attain

where's the Angst, where's the Drama in being happy?

anyway, katie's been ruined now

as if it wasn't enough that that fucking dwarf got his hands on nicole kidman, he's now after the barely nubile

okay, she's not that young, and in fairness if she can bare to breath (never mind breed) in the same room as cruise she's probably about as deep as the heels he lets women wear when playing opposite him on-screen, so let's not get too worked up about her life choices

the real problem is this

some minutes ago, dozing off around 2.30am with sky news on in the background as usual, you heard a report about the recent birth of his and her kid, which concluded:

Cruise previously announced that he intended eating the afterbirth and umbilical chord, quote, because they're so nutritious, but whether he has done so is as yet unconfirmed...

as either the ghost, widow or biographer of any rock star will tell you, vomiting when you're semi-conscious and/or lying on your back is not advisable

where does this stuck-up, facile little runt get off?

a) i don't fucking care if he eats the afterbirth, the mother and the child, i just really don't want to know - anyone who demands a silent birth, (no maternal screaming allowed for scientologists you know, and the doctors must communicate through gestures), because it might prove "distressing" to the baby is clearly mentally compromised and therefore capable of anything, including acts usually reserved for furry inhabitants of the Serengeti, and b) if you are gonna eat the afterbirth, and granted you wouldn't be the first to do so, keep it to yourself, you dick - i know you're a media whore but some things you just don't publicise, to protect the privacy of, say, the mother of your child... or her family... or your child, who the god's might just smile upon, call up a one-in-a-million genetic throwback that will see her grow up smart enough to carry out acts of simple cognition and maybe, just maybe, she could be upset, or "distressed" by reading in years to come about your selfish, wreck-loose and entirely reprehensible approach to dealing with the earliest and most precious days of her life

but hey, it's just a thought really

you're tired, you're irritable

you're probably wrong

maybe he'll choke

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

on morrissey (originally, and rushed)

irish blood, english heart, this i'm made of
there is no-one on earth i'm afraid of


i've been called (or is it accused of being?) a west-Brit with some frequency of late

i'm not entirely sure what this comment is supposed to mean, in 2006 and in relation to me, but it's amazing what reading the guardian and planning a very practical move to london will do to people's opinion of you

granted, you briefly but inadvertently found yourself working for the Tories in Brighton in 2004... but you checked your soul at the door when you took that tele-marketing job, showered at least twice daily during those dark days and also confided in as many cold-call recipients as you could that you agreed... they are a blight on this country... you mean their country, of course... what can you say... you were doing the honourable thing and supporting your happy, little and now lost household...

anyway, for the moment i've decided to adopt the above lines from moz as sort of a personal statement on things...

just for the hell of it

hey, you think it anyway

and besides, we're neighbours

right, back to the original point of this - it all has to do with the most exquisitely rolled R's i've ever heard

it was always gonna be good

morrissey in the olympia

how could it not be?

a small beautiful room full of sexually ambiguous, reformed, semi-reformed or hopelessly irreformable depressives and look-alikes not spitting distance from their idol, just a man, on one hand their saviour and long-term co-dependent in the strangest relationship of all, and on the other hand the thorn in their side, the soundtrack to adolescent oblivion, a maze in which many of us still languish

but then, "the past is a strange place"...

oh, and not all his fans fit the above description

certainly not that bolloxed drunk bald fucker that only friends and the intro to how soon is now? saved from having his face part company with his lower jaw

why he was there, or how he got a ticket, i just don't know

some things you just don't do to me, ever, and slap me dismissively in the face is one of them

your fuse is getting worryingly short and frayed

overall though, there was a huge amount of love in the olympia two nights ago

and that, surely, is what going to see music is about, whatever your taste

morrissey/smiths fans have a bad rep, mood-wise, and sitting in the backyard of the oak tree afterwards, some girl from stoneybatter kept calling us "the suicide brigade"

missing the point in the extreme, but i expect she was referring to lyrics like the following

so you go, and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry, and you want to die
(how soon is now?)

on the face of it, that's a pretty bleak lyric

but lyrics, generally, aren't suicide notes

they're words to which (musical) notes are written

big difference, stoneybatter

you write words and music not because you've been beaten by the thing but because you want to find a productive way to work through it... and you listen to the music of others for the same reason... you want to turn the darkness in to light, turn a bad experience in to something new, in to something that tips the scales a little more in your favour... you want to meet the fucker down an alley on your terms, not his... or hers... you want to listen to times when others have done the same... and won... you wrote before about the role of catharsis and it applies here, too...

take me anywhere, i don't care, i dont care, i don't care
(there is a light that never goes out)

anywhere except stoneybatter

that's a literal, idiotic, one-dimensional world you just couldn't live in

if you did, you might, say, get the wrong idea and kill yourself

morrissey is still very much alive, as am i, and his voice - both physical and artistic - are as strong as they were 20years ago

he might not ordinarily write protest songs, but he's socially relevant in that he communicates - stories, emotions, ideas, whatever

he speaks to people and with a turn of phrase he, and others like him, can reach the hearts and minds of his audience

if either morrissey or his fans were suicidal - and by that i mean willing to be defeated by this one world of ours - both the stage and the auditorium would have been, well, empty last weekend

we'd have been sat at home, grippred with a strange fear, and neither of us would ever have asked in the darkened underpass

yes, there are times when we didn't, and this is largely how and why we met, but you, or most of you, is now passed that, and listening to this kind of music is a kind of strange, never-ending requiem to what was and might forever be

we've grown, thanks in part to listening to music like this, alone and with friends

and that, stoneybatter, is what this means to me, and what you'll maybe never understand if you're not willing to break out of that insular little world you blindly managed to paint so vividly in the space of a few ill-formed sentences

incidentally, the lines from how soon is now?, quoted above, came second in a poll to decide the nation's (oh, sorry, england's) favourite lyric

granted it was also reported today that 5million (10% of) Britons drink on a daily basis to mask feelings of depression...

5million and one, eh?

but then, maybe we shouldn't take anything from this poll... robbie williams is in there (angels, number seven), as are (is?) coldplay (yellow, number five)... both beat the who's semi-unfulfilled rock'n'roll wish, hope i die before i get old...

what a telling moment it was, in terms of the mindset of much modern music, when robbie williams reversed that line and sang i hope i'm old before i die... and went to number one...

eminem is in there... good lyric, the intro to lose yourself, but not top-ten good... not better than i'm a creep, i'm a weirdo, what the hell am i doing here? i don't belong here

feeling stupid, contagious, explaining that you're here, now, and demanding entertainment is still a great idea, but maybe not number 3 great

maybe on a different night

funnily enough, i never really knew what marvin gaye was on about (or rather didn’t really listen) when he sang what's going on?, but now that i do, fair play, marv

if i'm honest, i never really got too worked up about bob marley, though his ideas on redemption and emancipation are nice

which brings us to number one

which is, inevitably

one

one life, with each other, sisters, brothers

which - although it's far from the best lyric i've ever heard - wouldn't have bothered me all that much if U2 weren't currently whoring their way through the charts with a new version of one, some 15years after they wrote it

it’s not the 15years that's a problem

it’s not the regurgitation of old songs when the new ones are patently shit

it’s not the video, which adds further weight to the image cult they’ve become

it’s not bono pretending to play guitar

it’s not edge not playing guitar like we know he can

it's... her

what is the fucking point of this version, beyond the kind of egotistical self-indulgent bullcrap that it gets more and more difficult not to associate with U2?

i've tried

i've tried to find something in it, even considered buying it to this end

i've tried to compare it to the harlem gospel choir's version of 'still haven't found what i’m looking for'

but you just can't, even for old time's sake... it's nothing, it's worse than nothing, it's the death knell for their credibility in any uncompromised mind... you've finally given up on them... their musical legacy is falling lower and lower in to the circles of hell and they can blame their own arrogance, their deluded sense of musical infallibility that is fatally betrayed and neutered by a mortal fear of criticism, a fear of falling out of the mainstream… walk away walk away, walk away walk away… because at this stage, i just want to see the back you…

well

it seems two posts have become one

one idea that spread to two

a sprawling mess

this one, this post, this world… it looks a little beyond salvation right now so maybe i'll just go listen to the smiths and kill myself

no, maybe on a different night

Sunday, April 16, 2006

on stuff (a rubbish post)

that i am definitely losing, and perhaps have already lost, all patience with my home town is no secret

it has been some time since i've felt at ease here, felt any sense of attachment to the place, felt any inclination to defend it

except when feeling argumentative

potential career(s) aside, this is why i'm leaving

actually, take that further... if i had no good reason to leave, i still would

and that's a sad thing to say, at 23, with family and friends soon to be at some remove, separated by a small but significant body of water and several hundreds of miles of flat, boring landscape that calls itself middle-england

but i'm just so sick of this place

sick of how small it feels

sick to death of it

truth be told, i'm sick, too, of every damn street having its ghost, of every bar, cafe and restaurant, of every park, cinema and gallery always and forever being haunted by some fuck up or other, some memory i just don't want to visit or be visited by every day

coming in to town the other night i rode the same bus along the same route and listened to the same barely verbal morons i've listened to for 23 years

i felt the same sense of frustration i always feel, had the same thoughts on the feasibility of introducing a strictly licence-regulated right to procreate, wished the same vain wish that the lungs of the socially worthless be removed so that a greener world of artists and intellectuals wouldn't need to process their carbon dioxide

i became deeply and horribly depressed, despite the journey only taking 30 minutes or so and its purpose being to meet for dinner and drinks

funny, what breathing swamp gas for even the shortest time can do

crossing from kevin street towards the green to pick up an easter egg, i tried to put my finger on what exactly my problem with all this was, and failed

strangely, the evening threw some light on it

dinner in La Gondola, a small italian just left of the ha'penny bridge if you cross north to south

i hadn't been there for years, what with the ghosts and all, and it wasn't nearly as good as i remembered

cramped conditions, mediocre food and the worst restaurant music i've ever heard don't really add up to a romantic experience

(i didn't think whitney houston singing "i will always love you" could get any worse, until i heard the dance remix... the trance-like build to the climactic chorus triggers strange and terrible memories of a david morales gig somewhere north of sibinek)

the staff weren't italian, not a problem in itself, but their dour manner pissed me off some

as a dining experience, it didn't feel authentic

later on, we found ourselves in zagloba, a polish bar on parnell street, on your right past the welcome inn as you head towards summer hill

the staff, polish, the customers, mainly polish, the beer, polish, the vodka, definitely polish, the decor, even more polish, the music, polish, the posters, polish, the match commentary on charlton-v-middlesbrough, surprisingly polish, sunday afternoon karaoke, worryingly polish, the overall atmosphere, i was informed, distinctly polish

i'm not sure what i expected from zagloba, or even exactly what i got, but whatever it was it was real and damn refreshing

smoking outside, i felt a tap on my arm, followed by "cigarette?"

sorry dude, they're inside, oh shit, no, wait, here they are

ah, irish?

yes

polish, (pointing at himself and smiling)

right

(i got the impression that maybe we'd reached the full extent of our common communicative skills)

how long have you been here?

my english, bad

how long, here?, (pointing at the ground, a gesture that in retrospect makes little sense)

12, (counted out on fingers), days

you like?

no job, no money, no sleep

(oh christ)

friends?

yes, tonight, one night, sleep with friend

i gave him money for a drink and asked him inside, kinda hoping that maybe if he hung about at the bar he could make a few contacts, get things rolling

the dude seemed so heart-breakingly fucking appreciative

i lit another cigarette and stayed outside a while, thinking, and sorta wanting to leave him to make his own way in

male pride is a weird animal, best left alone

standing there, a few things came to mind...

...that compared to the folks inside in that bar, a large chunk of irish people are lazy, arrogant fucks...

...that as a nation we've forgotten what it is to struggle, to leave your country behind, to try finding work and a new life somewhere else...

...that we don't give these immigrants the respect they're due, and that the blatant and widespread racism shown towards them is a fucking disgrace...

i work part-time in an electrical store, and a lot of our customers are of eastern-european and african origin

believe me, we're a racist nation

on a weekly basis i watch as the absolute dregs of a cruel genetic joke effect a sneering swagger towards folks that are probably working two or three jobs to pay these shitheads their commission

that anyone who smells of burger king and doesn't generate enough brain power to talk about something other than, well, nothing actually, feels in a position of superiority... well jeez, aren't we a healthy ol' educated society?

granted, there are assholes everywhere, but in a town this small they're just too easy to find

london is gonna have its assholes, and idiots talking shit on the buses, and boredom and violence and racism and everything else i hate about dublin - on a much larger scale

but it'll also have the things that, despite all, i still love about dublin, and these too will be on a larger scale

what this boils down to is people

a bigger city means a bigger potential circle of like-minded people

a greater chance of finding the life you want, of establishing an artistic enclave with your brothers, despite the darkness all around you...

where'd he come from?

this city is too small, and home to too many small minds

it's too small to deal with change, difference, anything that challenges the status quo

i'm generalising of course, but i think with justification

i'm reminded of a recent conversation, in an office looking out over the city, and a comment made there to the effect that dublin, compared to london, is just too small to develop properly, that it needs to grow physically before it can grow culturally

i don't have time to wait for this to happen

i've given dublin many chances and it keeps letting me down, as do her people

and as london might, but if a girl is fucking with you, you don't stay with her for fear the next one will too

at some point, you have to call time

i'm aware of sounding like someone completely divorced from reality, but if you really think that, why are you still reading?

where are you going with this? london, maybe another failure waiting to happen, but who knows? there's always new york, and dublin is over, anyway. that night in zagloba, you met a group of people who'd taken the chance and moved to a new country to make a better life. hide behind criticisms of others all you like, and they might well be true, but part of why you're so riled up is because you're still here, dead in the water, at risk of going stale. you're angry at yourself, you haven't taken that chance and left, yet. but you will, you have to. it's time.

(you finds it easier to sum up than i does, it seems... this post has misfired badly, there's a point in there somewhere and you might need to come back to it, pick through the rubble and explain yourself on this whole leaving issue once and for all... kudos to anyone that got this far... hmmm... you're missing that third wall already...)

Monday, April 10, 2006

on the 51st (blog neglect)

you've breached 20,000 words, a milestone of sorts, two dissertations, 15 short articles, almost a novella, or about 400 minutes of dictation, please god

but your last post, number 51, makes you wonder if you've lost your way

it's all become a bit... trite

when you started out, you were making points about things, thinking an argument through in the insomnia hours and then publishing it as best you could in the short time you spend on these things

what's happened to that impetus?

at some point room1004 became a stylistic exercise, and although that has its benefits, it makes the whole project feel a little impotent, a little self-indulgent

in fact, the majority of what you've written lately feels like nothing beyond wordy self-gratification

there's a time and a place for masturbation of this sort, and room1004, surely, isn't it

masturbation is fun, and has its role in all of our lives, but do it with enough frequency and it leaves you feeling tired, a limp, spent force, a lethargic bag of endorphins fit for sleep and unfit for the Real Thing

there's too many political posts sitting unfinished in your drafts folder, too many arguments spiked

so you're looking for a new focus

some time around 4am this morning, with cailín deas safely installed, nestling on your chest, contented in a cocoon of quilt and arms and warmth, a head of inevitably and adorably tangled hair rising and falling with your breath, you stare at the ceiling and get to thinking that maybe it's time i dropped this "you" nonsense, time i stopped placing so much narrative distance between me and my subject

it's time "i", the first of the diphthongs, re-entered the blog

i like "you", and you'll probably come back, but "i" gots to call the shots

it's my room, after all

you was fun, but like masturbation, the more you (or dare i say i?) do it the less special it becomes

you originally had a point, albeit a vague and inexplicit one, but you became a habit

and not a particularly healthy one for a 23-year-old male

lets try and leave that motif behind, shall we?

so we'll have less of the cryptic, day in the life two-liners from now on, posts that only the beloved few will ever understand

it's time to write with as universal an "i" as you (darnnit, i) can muster

the epidermic scarring on the base of your right wrist makes it strange that subjectivity of any sort would jar with you, but the subjective form is only worth a shit when you do it with good reason

which you wasn't

but it's more complicated than just deciding to change, for old habits are hard to break

so, here's a message to The Builder

Larry, oh Larry, where have you gone? You sent me off in to the blogosphere but that was the last I ever heard from you. Three months work and all I got in return was two digits - not a hand gesture, mind, but a mark. Now, more than ever, I need your guidance. The comments have dried up and I'm not sure if I'm wasting my time. Room1004 is a colder place since you left, despite the change of season. If you're still roaming through these parts, and if your righteous struggle against the right isn't taking up too much of your time, please come and visit, with comforting words and cruel wisdom, to direct this floundering, schizophrenic ship.

(hey, you, i'm still here... you, that is... have you considered that some day you'll regret this post and feel that you've been rash and irreversibly torn down the third wall? you know there's that possibility, and that i call the shots just as much as you do... you haven't heard the last of me)

Saturday, April 08, 2006

on grogan's (i think)

despite all, arrived in work

possibly still drunk

shaking

charco you loon, why the breaking of glass?

you wonder what sort of impression you made

you wonder lots of things

indeed...

whatever that note said, you stand by your argument to the effect that walt whitman was, and is, The Man

you vaguely remember saying something about the democracy of poetry - autobiography and the american ideal

and even though it's not true, you're gonna tell everyone about joyce's three F's

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

aw-n ef-ay-el-ing ah-gay-en

granted you broke lent

repeatedly

you didn't attend

repeatedly

but fuck it you tried

repeatedly

tried to catch up, tried to focus, tried to give a damn

failed to catch up, failed to focus, still don't give a damn

failed

repeating in august

you left it late but you went balls deep with the time you had and it doesn't look like it paid off

why go down this road? why get in to it all again?

all's you know is it's put a downer on this whole gig

it's gradually sinking your boat, tearing a hole far below the water-line, and when the engine room(1004) is flooded there's not much point in worrying about the speed or quality of service up in the dining hall

rock bottom awaits, even if the captain does the honourable thing and stays on board till the bitter end