Verses

"Dragostea Din Tei"
O-Zone
(2004)

----rough English trans---



"Love From The Lime Trees" or "Love of the Linden Tree"

Maya-Hi
Maya-Hu
Maya-Ho
Maya-Ha Ha
Maya-Hi
Maya-Hu
Maya-Ho
Maya-Ha Ha

Hello, Salute--
It's me...your Duke
And I've made something that's real
To show you how I feel.

Hello, Hello--
It's me...Picasso.
I will paint my words of love
With your name on every wall.

When you leave, my colors fade to gray.
Whoa I whoa I aaa
Whoa I whoa I whoa I aaa
...Every word of love I used to say...
Now I paint it everyday.

I sold my strings, my songs, and dreams,
And I bought some paints to match the colors of my love.
Hello, Hello--
It's me again...Picasso.
I will spray my words of love
With your name on every wall.

When you leave my colors fade to gray.
Whoa I whoa I aaa
Whoa I whoa I whoa I aaa
...Every word of love I used to say...
Now I paint it everyday .

When you leave my colors fade to gray
Hey, little lover stay
Or all my colors fade away
...Every word of love I used to say...
Now I paint it everyday.

Maya-Hi
Maya-Hu
Maya-Ho
Maya-Ha Ha
Maya-Hi
Maya-Hu
Maya-Ho
Maya-Ha Ha

Maya-Hi
Maya-Hu
Maya-Ho
Maya-Ha Ha
Maya-Hi
Maya-Hu
Maya-Ho
Maya-Ha Ha

When you leave my colors fade to gray.
Whoa I whoa I aaa
Whoa I whoa I whoa I aaa
...Every word of love I used to say...
Now I paint it everyday.

When you leave my colors fade to gray.
Hey, little lover stay,
Or all my colors fade away.
...Every word of love I used to say...
Now I paint it everyday.

Love in This Club

In late 2004, Petrova and I (and a few other people but it was our idea) started saying "be Charlie Sheen" or "be Tony Danza," intermittently, as advice. The phrases were distinct. I think to be Tony meant to be fearless in a wholesome, fall-on-yr-face way (like having a talk show). And to be Charlie...well it's obvious (and pretty damn 19-year-old-y). The whole thing was so wrapped up in early statement t-shirts and trucker hats and Facebook culture and was totally suitable back then I swear.

Michael K posted this picture yesterday and then Pillow said something about it and it's mesmerizing.

Get Well Soon Marissa Cooper.

Former O.C. starlet/professional girlfriend and London-club-goer/likely heroin-sniffer, Mischa Barton called 911 Wednesday night and was sent down to Cedars. As of yesterday A.M., her publicist reported it was a case of pesky wisdom teeth...we begged to differ. We were correct. She's collapsed in that proverbial Tijuana alleyway, and been placed under a 5150 psychiatric hold by the state of California. We've all been there.

These, as mentioned again and a-gane, are psychically trying times. Something crested. 2009 is a big, fast thud for Millennials and Millennial celebrities and the WORLD. Our prayers (?) are with Marissamischa, the insides of hospitals are jarring, but calling for help--of any sort--is a good move.

"stay carried"

I've been watching Season 1 of The Sopranos for the first time since it aired on HBO in winter 1999. It's a theatrical joy (as remembered), and I am once again hearting/lusting Tony and Christopher (in all of his tracksuit-and-chain-wearing glory!) and the John and Junior Soprano of Tony's late sixties flashbacks, a den of violent, narrow, philandering gangsters.

My dear friend PMC decries this sort of archetypal male role, "the lovable misogynist." And I agree--the hero who blithely (or with a scant few pangs of regret) commits crimes and uses up a string of adoring/sad/angry women is a threat to culture, a dumb, toxic product of patriarchal art-making, a pin-up for femmes who hate themselves. But, try as I might, (sorry Ma) I can't apply good politics to sex--I'm one of those suckered femmes--I find "lovable misogynists" irresistible.

When I was eighteen, I was on a date with a nice, Jewish boy, a little older than me. We were on our way to a bar in Allston-Brighton, cruising through tunnels in his zippy little silver, CA-plated Beemer listening to "Let's Get High" off of Dre's Chronic 2001, an album with quite fond High School associations. He asked if the song bothered me. I laughed, said, "Sorry, I'm confused." He explained that it had just struck him (stoned) how "sexist" the lyrics were. He was embarrassed.--

[all together]
All these niggaz and all these hoes in here
Somebody here gon' fuck! (repeat 4X)
[Hittman]
Talkin that, walkin that, spittin at hoes
Smokin this, drinkin that, hittin at hoes
Fuck this I'm hittin that I'm hittin em both
Have one ridin dick, one lickin my toes
When I'm lovin these hoes there ain't no love involved
No hugs, no kisses, bear rugs, bear britches
Rare bitches like to pose in them Black Tail pictures
Bitch jumped off my dick, "Is that Dre over there?"
[Dr. Dre]
Yeah -- I just took some Ecstasy
Ain't no tellin what the side effects could be
All these fine bitches equal sex to me
Plus I got this bad bitch layin next to me
No doubt, sit back on the couch
Pants down, rubber on, set to turn that ass out
Laid the bitch out, then I put it in her mouth
Pulled out, nutted on a towel and passed out
[Kurupt]
Come on let's get high (hiiiiigh..) let's get high (hiiiiigh..)
Come on let's get high (hiiiiigh..) let's get high
All my ladies let's get high (hiiiiigh..) high (hiiiiigh..)
Let's get high (hiiiiigh..) Come on let's get high
I make the four hop {*hydraulic sound*} pull up at the spot
Weed by the barrels in my G'd up apparel
Stompin in the party, Kurupt, Young Gotti
I'm fuckin somethin in this bitch, hit em with some gangsta shit
Put somethin in your mouth bitch real tasty...
...Kurupt with an ounce an' got all the hoes in this motherfucker bouncin {*hydraulics*}
Down to.. YO WHATTUP SCRAM JONES?
Mel-Man what's crackin? Whassup wit all these ol' punk ass hoes in here?
[Ms. Roq]
Nigga WHUT??! I'm a hustlin bitch!
I like them get rich niggaz, them hit the switch niggaz
Niggaz bout the sex and which bitch to hit next
While I'm kickin my game and collectin them checks
Got all y'all niggaz vexed to fuck this triple-X rated hoe
You say you ain't eat it - you ate it though
And uhh, Roq don't stop, can't be droppin no drawers
To the niggaz how you figure got you shittin in yours
Yeah, little dicks always runnin they mouth
While a bitch is better off to masturbate and be out
All you bitches up in here know what I'm talkin about
Get the loot, get the ice, fuck the wife, no doubt
Tryin to live lavish, marry a big dick and stay carried
Holla back at them niggaz that hollered at me
Pop the Cris', whip the six and shit
And have all y'all niggaz limp when I twist my shit
Yeah! Bitch ass niggaz!

--I said, "Oh, it's never occurred to me. I mean, there's the part with the chick at the end. I don't know. I'm not bothered by that stuff."

Verses

In a poetry class in undergrad, my professor encouraged us to make "collages" out of certain poet's work by skimming a volume, drawing out favored lines, and building them into poems of our own(ish). I was looking for a poem by Olena Kalytiak-Davis to post here, but found that I liked my version best. The following is mixture of us two:

In the new mess of morning light
Jameson
And his two sons
Really
Each man, with a car and a wife
His tie, his waistcoat

The dinner conversation moves,
To my first hotel room
Sure, I’m unnerved, but I’ll listen
I listen to myself
Trying not to sound desperate, but beginning to repeat things

Caesar’s Palace.
The way life keeps splitting itself in two

I’ve left rooms saying: Fuck you
And you, and you
And then, made resolutions in a parked car
In a parking lot
In a strange city that is already too familiar

This strip, this city
My memory
Of myself and someone
Translucent, crazy, awake only at night
The panic of birds
At dawn
The mattress that murmurs from underneath me
Hey precious, listen
You should give up

But you don’t recollect like that