Randy: That techno-rock you guys listen to is gutless.
Julie Richman: Do you think she really does all the stuff she says?
Stacey: I mean, who could make up 'That stuff tastes like Clorox.'?
Fred Bailey: So, you wanna dance?
Girl: In another life!
Fred Bailey: Yeah, I didn't either. I was just taking a poll.
Randy: Where do you work?
Julie Richman: At my parents' store.
Randy: What do they sell?
Julie Richman: Health foods.
Randy: That's cool.
Julie Richman: Like, it's not cool at all! Like, it's all this stuff that tastes like nothing and it's supposed to be so good for you. Why couldn't they, like, open a Pizza Hut or something?
Julie Richman: I'll start my diet tomorrow.
Stacey: You better watch out, because Randy might like the Hollywood lean look.
Suzi Brent: Yeah, but blimps don't get to go out with Tommy.
Julie Richman: Who?
Stacey: Tommy.
Julie Richman: Who?
Loryn, Stacey, and Suzi: [in unison] TOMMY!
Julie Richman: Fuck him!
[behind the stage curtain at the Valley High junior prom]
Fred Bailey: Ahh! Stacey! Hey, man, check out Stacey!
Randy: I don't wanna see Stacey.
[peeks from behind the curtain in time to see Tommy kiss Julie on the dance floor]
Randy: Ugh! That's it! Man, I've had it with you, Bailey!
Fred Bailey: What? I didn't think her haircut was that bad.
Randy: What do you mean, her haircut? I just want to know what the rest of this grand plan of yours is.
Fred Bailey: No, man, this is it! Simplicity at its finest.
Randy: Simplicity at its finest. Well, at least you got us here. So let's...
Randy and Fred (in unison): ...crush that fly!
Randy: [to Julie after she dumps him] Well fuck you, for sure, like totally!
Tommy: It appears as though you forgot our French fries and a coke, fishhead.
Randy: Oh, well, Peter Piper picked a pepper, I guess I did!
Julie Richman: [to her friends] Man, he's like tripendicular, ya know?
Julie Richman: Like they're staring right at us.
Stacey: Gross! Let's move.
Fred Bailey: Do you believe a girl should pet on the first date?
Girl: Who are you... Bozo the Clown?
Steve Richman: [about Julie] Sarah, do you know how much she looks like you?
Sarah Richman: Do I still look that way?
Steve Richman: Better!
Randy: [shouting over the noise just as the music ends] So, when can I see you again?
Julie Richman: [embarassed] Gee, Randy... why don't you wait until the end of the evening to say these things?
Randy: It's how I feel.
Julie Richman: I'm here with you now.
Randy: [warily surveying party food] What's that?
Suzi Brent: It's like sushi, don't ya know? Like this here is tuna...
[a guest takes a huge bite]
Randy: [looking disgusted] Dig in, Fred.
Fred Bailey: [introducing himself to Julie and Stacey] Hi, I'm Fred. I like tacos and '71 Cabernet. My favorite color is magenta.
Tommy: [about his recent break-up with Julie] Who else is there? No other Val dude can touch me. She must really be freaking out.
Julie Richman: Yeah, but Tommy can be such a dork, ya know? Like he's got the bod, but his brains are bad news.
Suzi Brent: But he is bitchin'. You really are so lucky, Julie.
Julie Richman: I know, but we've been going together so long now. Like I'm beginning to think I'm a piece of furniture or something... like an old chair!
Loryn: Oh, bad news!
Julie Richman: [glancing at Brad] I definitely need something new.
Stacey: Fred?
Fred Bailey: Stacey?
Stacey: God you're so weird go away!
Fred Bailey: My little pickle. My darling.
Stacey: Like this is so embarrassing.
Fred Bailey: Well I think you're cute
Stacey: My God.
Tommy: [while getting his ticket torn by Randy, who is working as an usher and wearing 3D glasses] Bitchin'! Is this in 3D?
Randy: No, but you're face is.
Randy: No one is gonna tell me who I can score with! Now I want this chick, she wants me, so fuck it, we're goin' back.
Jul 10, 2009
Jul 9, 2009
For Shame
Judy Berman of Salon had this to say about Paris Jackson speaking at her father's memorial:
...even if Paris' words of affection and loss were completely genuine, I can't help but worry that her emotional debut was exploitative. Shouldn't a truly loving family know better than to spotlight the grief of an 11 year old who has just lost a parent?
Really? I find this kind of speculation, and there's been lots of it, to be unspeakably cruel. The girl was standing with her family, who obviously had no intention of her speaking, when she tapped her aunt on the arm and asked to say something about the only parent she's ever had; a parent who the world assumed abused and damaged her.
I'm guessing Berman has never been to the funeral of a parent of young children. Some years ago, my former boyfriend's older sister (a controversial character in her own right, whose parenting skills were also constantly in question) passed away. Her young daughter stood at her service and spoke, and although I can't remember what she said, I do know that for the rest of her life she will be proud of herself for having the courage and maturity to stand for her mother and be an active participant in putting her to rest.
Our culture is taught to pussyfoot around children. Don't say bad words around them, don't show emotion around them, shield them from anything negative and "adult"; but we forget the incredible emotional maturity young people are capable of, for better or worse. Our under-the-age-of-18 peers are people too, with the right to bury and eulogize and celebrate. Perhaps the discomfort here is not about any of this, but about our own guilt. As fragile dolls whisked here and there with silly masks and scarves over their faces, the Jackson children were merely one more link in the "Wacko Jacko" chain. But we are now faced with the reality of three young children who have lost their father, and we can no longer make fun or be cynical. It's hard to feel feelings, and Paris Jackson and her family are now being villianized to make the world feel better about being so damn mean. For shame!
...even if Paris' words of affection and loss were completely genuine, I can't help but worry that her emotional debut was exploitative. Shouldn't a truly loving family know better than to spotlight the grief of an 11 year old who has just lost a parent?
Really? I find this kind of speculation, and there's been lots of it, to be unspeakably cruel. The girl was standing with her family, who obviously had no intention of her speaking, when she tapped her aunt on the arm and asked to say something about the only parent she's ever had; a parent who the world assumed abused and damaged her.
I'm guessing Berman has never been to the funeral of a parent of young children. Some years ago, my former boyfriend's older sister (a controversial character in her own right, whose parenting skills were also constantly in question) passed away. Her young daughter stood at her service and spoke, and although I can't remember what she said, I do know that for the rest of her life she will be proud of herself for having the courage and maturity to stand for her mother and be an active participant in putting her to rest.
Our culture is taught to pussyfoot around children. Don't say bad words around them, don't show emotion around them, shield them from anything negative and "adult"; but we forget the incredible emotional maturity young people are capable of, for better or worse. Our under-the-age-of-18 peers are people too, with the right to bury and eulogize and celebrate. Perhaps the discomfort here is not about any of this, but about our own guilt. As fragile dolls whisked here and there with silly masks and scarves over their faces, the Jackson children were merely one more link in the "Wacko Jacko" chain. But we are now faced with the reality of three young children who have lost their father, and we can no longer make fun or be cynical. It's hard to feel feelings, and Paris Jackson and her family are now being villianized to make the world feel better about being so damn mean. For shame!
Jul 8, 2009
This is also about Michael Jackson.
Yesterday afternoon we paused at work to watch the Memorial. I walked to the subway and talked to my mother about it. I came home and talked to Pillow about it. I have a few more things to say (with likely repetitions).
The service returned us (at least Pil and I) to some stasis, or, better yet, some plane of hope and action. We felt a pall lift, a release of those awful, vague, much-rambled-about jet crash and bad news fears. Michael Jackson had a difficult and unhappy life. He was not a well person when he died (presumably, by injecting a kind of pharmaceutical speedball). But since his death, at least for some, his human foibles, his long-documented madness and aloneness and otherness, have been eclipsed by one great conversation about the things he made, about art, American art, the connective triumph of pop, many of the great themes of our 20th century gone by. There is a tremendous mystical power in the release of a hit record, a record that becomes an elastic tissue linking millions of strangers and towns and eras, reminding us of all of the good universals and commonalities, ancient ecstasies.
In the 1994 Diane Sawyer interview with Michael and his then new bride, Lisa Marie Presley, MJ called a swathe of tabloid rumors about his health and eccentricities, "folklore." It's a sweet and brilliant moment. Michael was mythic; what was written about him was not gossip, but "folklore."
As I watched the Memorial, as I thought about the many others watching, I felt overwhelmed with joy at the scale of this ceremony meant to send up an American artist. Through our staff's lifetimes (and surely before), this counrty's military brutishness and bald capitalism have been unpopular, but our creative output has been definitive, vital, revolutionary, beloved. Of this, we should be very proud. We are, in a way, lucky to be reminded by this positive Christ-figure, Michael Jackson. Lucky to be reminded of the social power of art and the preciousness of time to the artist, to the appreciator of art and nature.
A friend was just describing to me how difficult her daughter found it to be away from home for three days. I, in turn, recalled that childhood conception of time--the endlessness of a single afternoon, the confusion about geography, the thrill and terror of first travelling. I am now able to remember in units of years, units of length-spent-in-this-particular-place-and-clothing. One day, I'll be able to remember decades, stacks of them. The point is: time does pass--we collect those past hours and days and months in memory--but they do go and go. How wonderful to spend it wisely, looking, loving, making, considering. How wonderful to remember too.
The service returned us (at least Pil and I) to some stasis, or, better yet, some plane of hope and action. We felt a pall lift, a release of those awful, vague, much-rambled-about jet crash and bad news fears. Michael Jackson had a difficult and unhappy life. He was not a well person when he died (presumably, by injecting a kind of pharmaceutical speedball). But since his death, at least for some, his human foibles, his long-documented madness and aloneness and otherness, have been eclipsed by one great conversation about the things he made, about art, American art, the connective triumph of pop, many of the great themes of our 20th century gone by. There is a tremendous mystical power in the release of a hit record, a record that becomes an elastic tissue linking millions of strangers and towns and eras, reminding us of all of the good universals and commonalities, ancient ecstasies.
In the 1994 Diane Sawyer interview with Michael and his then new bride, Lisa Marie Presley, MJ called a swathe of tabloid rumors about his health and eccentricities, "folklore." It's a sweet and brilliant moment. Michael was mythic; what was written about him was not gossip, but "folklore."
As I watched the Memorial, as I thought about the many others watching, I felt overwhelmed with joy at the scale of this ceremony meant to send up an American artist. Through our staff's lifetimes (and surely before), this counrty's military brutishness and bald capitalism have been unpopular, but our creative output has been definitive, vital, revolutionary, beloved. Of this, we should be very proud. We are, in a way, lucky to be reminded by this positive Christ-figure, Michael Jackson. Lucky to be reminded of the social power of art and the preciousness of time to the artist, to the appreciator of art and nature.
A friend was just describing to me how difficult her daughter found it to be away from home for three days. I, in turn, recalled that childhood conception of time--the endlessness of a single afternoon, the confusion about geography, the thrill and terror of first travelling. I am now able to remember in units of years, units of length-spent-in-this-particular-place-and-clothing. One day, I'll be able to remember decades, stacks of them. The point is: time does pass--we collect those past hours and days and months in memory--but they do go and go. How wonderful to spend it wisely, looking, loving, making, considering. How wonderful to remember too.
Nail Color for Wednesday
Essie Canataloupe, a slightly sheer, totally lady-like Fisher's Island coral.
Verses
PAGE
This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn.First Watchman
The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard:Second Watchman
Go, some of you, whoe'er you find attach.
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,
And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,
Who here hath lain these two days buried.
Go, tell the prince: run to the Capulets:
Raise up the Montagues: some others search:
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
But the true ground of all these piteous woes
We cannot without circumstance descry.Re-enter some of the Watch, with BALTHASAR
Here's Romeo's man; we found him in the churchyard.First Watchman
Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.Third WatchmanRe-enter others of the Watch, with FRIAR LAURENCE
Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs and weeps:First Watchman
We took this mattock and this spade from him,
As he was coming from this churchyard side.
A great suspicion: stay the friar too.PRINCEEnter the PRINCE and Attendants
What misadventure is so early up,CAPULET
That calls our person from our morning's rest?Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and others
What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?LADY CAPULET
The people in the street cry Romeo,PRINCE
Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run,
With open outcry toward our monument.
What fear is this which startles in our ears?First Watchman
Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;PRINCE
And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
Warm and new kill'd.
Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.First Watchman
Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man;CAPULET
With instruments upon them, fit to open
These dead men's tombs.
O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!LADY CAPULET
This dagger hath mista'en--for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague,--
And it mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom!
O me! this sight of death is as a bell,PRINCE
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.Enter MONTAGUE and others
Come, Montague; for thou art early up,MONTAGUE
To see thy son and heir more early down.
Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night;PRINCE
Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath:
What further woe conspires against mine age?
Look, and thou shalt see.MONTAGUE
O thou untaught! what manners is in this?PRINCE
To press before thy father to a grave?
Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,FRIAR LAURENCE
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their
true descent;
And then will I be general of your woes,
And lead you even to death: meantime forbear,
And let mischance be slave to patience.
Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
I am the greatest, able to do least,PRINCE
Yet most suspected, as the time and place
Doth make against me of this direful murder;
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excused.
Then say at once what thou dost know in this.FRIAR LAURENCE
I will be brief, for my short date of breathPRINCE
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;
And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife:
I married them; and their stol'n marriage-day
Was Tybalt's dooms-day, whose untimely death
Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from the city,
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined.
You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
Betroth'd and would have married her perforce
To County Paris: then comes she to me,
And, with wild looks, bid me devise some mean
To rid her from this second marriage,
Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
Then gave I her, so tutor'd by my art,
A sleeping potion; which so took effect
As I intended, for it wrought on her
The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo,
That he should hither come as this dire night,
To help to take her from her borrow'd grave,
Being the time the potion's force should cease.
But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight
Return'd my letter back. Then all alone
At the prefixed hour of her waking,
Came I to take her from her kindred's vault;
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo:
But when I came, some minute ere the time
Of her awaking, here untimely lay
The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.
She wakes; and I entreated her come forth,
And bear this work of heaven with patience:
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb;
And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
But, as it seems, did violence on herself.
All this I know; and to the marriage
Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
Be sacrificed, some hour before his time,
Unto the rigour of severest law.
We still have known thee for a holy man.BALTHASAR
Where's Romeo's man? what can he say in this?
I brought my master news of Juliet's death;PRINCE
And then in post he came from Mantua
To this same place, to this same monument.
This letter he early bid me give his father,
And threatened me with death, going in the vault,
I departed not and left him there.
Give me the letter; I will look on it.PAGE
Where is the county's page, that raised the watch?
Sirrah, what made your master in this place?
He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave;PRINCE
And bid me stand aloof, and so I did:
Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb;
And by and by my master drew on him;
And then I ran away to call the watch.
This letter doth make good the friar's words,CAPULET
Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
And here he writes that he did buy a poison
Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.
Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!
See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
And I for winking at your discords too
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.
O brother Montague, give me thy hand:MONTAGUE
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
Can I demand.
But I can give thee more:CAPULET
For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
That while Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set
As that of true and faithful Juliet.
As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie;PRINCE
Poor sacrifices of our enmity!
A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.Exeunt
Love In This Club
Sadly, last night was the final episode of Logo's run of the BBC's Beautiful People. Although BBC is already filming season 2, I'm actually quite sad to see it go, even for a little while. Beautiful People was stunning and refreshing from the start--crazy enough to place one gay tween as the hero, with an even more gay tween sidekick! The show is set in the late 1990's (leaving obvious references to such gay squires as Posh Spice, Princess Diana, and the thousand and one boy/girl groups invading both our countries). Just find me a gay twentysomething that doesn't relate to this show in some way. Dare I say it, Logo, you actually appealed to a demographic!
The season finale left a few unanswered questions (mainly, Simon's mom really doesn't think he's gay?), but overall it gave that warm and fuzzy happy feeling I've lacked since Gilmore Girls went off the air. Here's to more wacky, overly supportive family comedy this fall(?).
And my favorite scene from this year (with a little unintentional nod to MJ just 'cuz):
The season finale left a few unanswered questions (mainly, Simon's mom really doesn't think he's gay?), but overall it gave that warm and fuzzy happy feeling I've lacked since Gilmore Girls went off the air. Here's to more wacky, overly supportive family comedy this fall(?).
And my favorite scene from this year (with a little unintentional nod to MJ just 'cuz):
Jul 7, 2009
Ugly Hearts
I don't quite have the energy to tackle THIS RACIST PIECE OF SHIT THAT MICHELLE MALKIN JUST POSTED (THE CONFOUNDING SECOND HIT ON A GOOGLE NEWS SEARCH OF TODAY'S MICHAEL JACKSON MEMORIAL SERVICE), but I thought it should be noted. Ultimately, it's pretty futile to argue with (or become incensed by) these sorts of flimsy extremist carpetbaggers, but it's just so hard not to boil over the low muck that's raked by Conservative (ha) pundits down our way.
Oooooooooooof. Boooooooooof. Bile.
The Homegoing
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Maya Angelou and (H.R.H.) Q.L. and Pillow each noted, "We had him."--a wise, steady reminder of mortal blessings, the very sort we've all fallen out of touch with lately. The notion that an individual's existence/work/joy in work/(sorrows in life) were a gift to us, to the whole is...thrilling, affirming, happy.
And I was moved by Berry, who could recall a Michael unfamous, undiscovered, small and beautiful and full of promise.
I was moved by Al, with his unmistakable strut and acrobatic, ultra-poetic plainspeech: "It's not about mess. It's about his love message!....Your Daddy weren't strange!"
I was moved by Stevie, Motown's original boy-wonder, a person who knew Michael well, but never saw him, who was able to be a friend to him, a fan of him without ever viewing his self-mutilation, his all-too apparent self-doubt, self-confusion--anguish.
I was moved that Magic Johnson looked so healthy, and that Kobe knew not to speak.
I was moved by the Kings' words about work and purpose.
I was moved by Representative Sheila Jackson Lee's words about all of the Gary, Indiana Jacksons' "American story"-iedness, and by her insistence that "through wars" Michael had been our ambassador of good will, of what is fine about Americans--art.
I was moved by Germaine's delivery of Charlie Chaplin's ultra-American tune from Modern Life (how fitting!).
And of course, I was moved by Michael's daughter Paris, Aunt Janet (who looked exactly the way I want to look at any funeral I go to from now on) at her back, a child sharing this terrifying personal loss with the masses, a child surely aware of so many dark rumors, speculation that her father harmed her and her brothers, claiming aloud that he was good and that he loved them, from the start and unconditionally.
Altogether, it was a beautiful homegoing. In remembering Michael Jackson, we are remembering to live, to work, and to love. And we thank him.
I was moved by the Kings' words about work and purpose.
I was moved by Representative Sheila Jackson Lee's words about all of the Gary, Indiana Jacksons' "American story"-iedness, and by her insistence that "through wars" Michael had been our ambassador of good will, of what is fine about Americans--art.
I was moved by Germaine's delivery of Charlie Chaplin's ultra-American tune from Modern Life (how fitting!).
And of course, I was moved by Michael's daughter Paris, Aunt Janet (who looked exactly the way I want to look at any funeral I go to from now on) at her back, a child sharing this terrifying personal loss with the masses, a child surely aware of so many dark rumors, speculation that her father harmed her and her brothers, claiming aloud that he was good and that he loved them, from the start and unconditionally.
Altogether, it was a beautiful homegoing. In remembering Michael Jackson, we are remembering to live, to work, and to love. And we thank him.
Verses
"We Had Him"
Written by Maya Angelou
Read by Queen Latifah
Beloveds -
Now we know that we know nothing
Now that our bright and shining star
Can slip away from our fingertips
Like a puff of subtle wind, without notice
Our dear love can escape our doting embrace
Sing our songs among the stars
and walk our dances across the face of the moon
In the instant we learn that Michael is gone
We know nothing
No clocks can tell our time
and no oceans can rush our tides
With the abrupt absence of our treasure
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone
Piercingly alone
Only when we confess our confusion
Can we remember that he was a gift to us
and we did have him
He came to us from the creator
Trailing creativity in abundance
Despite the anguish of life
He was sheathed in mother love, in family love
and survived
and did more than that
He thrived
With passion and compassion, humor and style
We had him
Whether we knew who he was
Or did not know
He was ours
and we were his
We had him
Beautiful
Delighting our eyes
He tipped his hat, slant over his brow
and took a pose on his toes for all of us
and we laughed and stomped our feet for him
We were enchanted with his passion
Because he held nothing
He gave us all he had been given
Today, in Toyko
Beneath the Eiffel Tower
In Ghana's Black Star Square
In Birmingham, Alabama and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael Jackson
But we do know we had him
and we are the world
Jul 6, 2009
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
Strange days. That's what *these* have been.
It began before Michael died (maybe with that combusted airplane out of Brasilia or that impromptu monsoon season, our June-length bout of SUPER-coastalness). But the weirds have only mushroomed since MJ's passing, since each of the celebrity "passages" of last week, since Billy Mays weathered a sticky landing at Tampa International Airport only—some 20 hours later—to be felled by an embolism at home.
I (and a few others) have been gripped by a general anxiety, starting at the lurch of a train or the pop of a firecracker, inadvertantly calling upon Jesus. Or really, envisioning Jesus (a thing I never do) as a masked avenger, as death chasing Billy Mays, as a headless horseman.
Petrova said last night: "Shit's finally catching up with people." And that settles it.
...Now I'll can the alarmism for another week--promeso.
Petrova said last night: "Shit's finally catching up with people." And that settles it.
...Now I'll can the alarmism for another week--promeso.
View of a Room
Al Capone's restored cell at Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, PA (ca. 1929).
The Best Thing Going (For Monday)
The revelation of Jackie and RFK's post-'63 affair--both lovely and terrible.
I'm OK. You're OK.
I was so worked up about this not being embeddable, I'm just linking it. So there. From The Legend of Billie Jean, the worst movie ever made, and--according to Pat--also the most asked-about film Linda Blair has encountered through her bizarre sci-fi/Comic-con career...
Jul 5, 2009
Fourt
Adams and Liberty
Written for, and sung at the fourth Anniversary of the Massachusetts Charitable Fire Society, 1798.
Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought,
For those rights, which unstained from your Sires had descended,
May you long taste the blessings your valour has brought,
And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended.
'Mid the regin of mild Peace,
May your nation increase,
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece;
And ne'er shall the sons of Colmbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion,
The trident of Commerce should never be hurled,
To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean.
But should pirates invade,
Though in thunder arrayed,
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,
Had justly ennobled our nation in story,
'Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day,
And enveloped the sun of American glory.
But let traitors be told,
Who their country have sold,
And bartered their God for his image in gold,
That ne'er will the sons, &c.
While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,
And Society's base threats with wide dissolution;
May Peace like the dove, who returned from the flood,
Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution
But though Peace is our aim,
Yet the boon we disclaim,
If bought by our Sov'reignty, Justice or Fame.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms;
Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision,
Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms,
We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division.
While with patriot pride,
To our laws we're allied,
No foe can subdue us, no faction divide.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Our mountains are crowned with imperial oak;
Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourished;
But lone e'er our nation submits to the yoke,
Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourished.
Should invasion impend,
Every grove would descend,
From the hill-tops, they shaded, our shores to defend.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm;
Lest our Liberty's growth should be checked by corrosion;
Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm;
Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own explosion.
Foes assail us in vain,
Though their fleets bridge the main,
For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Should the Tempest of War overshadow our land,
Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder;
For, unmoved, at its portal, would Washington stand,
And repulse, with his Breast, the assaults of the thunder!
His sword, from the sleep
Of its scabbard would leap,
And conduct, with its point, ev'ry flash to the deep!
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Let Fame to the world sound America's voice;
No intrigues can her sons from their government sever;
Her pride is her Adams; Her laws are his choice,
And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers for ever.
Then unite heart and hand,
Like Leonidas' band,
And swear to the God of the ocean and land;
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
Words: Robert Treat Paine (1773-1811)
Music: To Anacreon in Heaven
Written for, and sung at the fourth Anniversary of the Massachusetts Charitable Fire Society, 1798.
Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought,
For those rights, which unstained from your Sires had descended,
May you long taste the blessings your valour has brought,
And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended.
'Mid the regin of mild Peace,
May your nation increase,
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece;
And ne'er shall the sons of Colmbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion,
The trident of Commerce should never be hurled,
To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean.
But should pirates invade,
Though in thunder arrayed,
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,
Had justly ennobled our nation in story,
'Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day,
And enveloped the sun of American glory.
But let traitors be told,
Who their country have sold,
And bartered their God for his image in gold,
That ne'er will the sons, &c.
While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,
And Society's base threats with wide dissolution;
May Peace like the dove, who returned from the flood,
Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution
But though Peace is our aim,
Yet the boon we disclaim,
If bought by our Sov'reignty, Justice or Fame.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms;
Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision,
Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms,
We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division.
While with patriot pride,
To our laws we're allied,
No foe can subdue us, no faction divide.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Our mountains are crowned with imperial oak;
Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourished;
But lone e'er our nation submits to the yoke,
Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourished.
Should invasion impend,
Every grove would descend,
From the hill-tops, they shaded, our shores to defend.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm;
Lest our Liberty's growth should be checked by corrosion;
Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm;
Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own explosion.
Foes assail us in vain,
Though their fleets bridge the main,
For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain.
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Should the Tempest of War overshadow our land,
Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder;
For, unmoved, at its portal, would Washington stand,
And repulse, with his Breast, the assaults of the thunder!
His sword, from the sleep
Of its scabbard would leap,
And conduct, with its point, ev'ry flash to the deep!
For ne'er shall the sons, &c.
Let Fame to the world sound America's voice;
No intrigues can her sons from their government sever;
Her pride is her Adams; Her laws are his choice,
And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers for ever.
Then unite heart and hand,
Like Leonidas' band,
And swear to the God of the ocean and land;
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
Words: Robert Treat Paine (1773-1811)
Music: To Anacreon in Heaven
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