Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Blue Oyster Cult

Telling People Why They’re Wrong

…a service we’ve (OK, I’ve) provided for over 5 years.


Sure, he’s written world-famous lyrics, but I CANNOT BE STOPPED.

–“She was more than beautiful

Closer to ethereal

With a kind of down-to-earth flavor”

You can’t be both ethereal and down-to-earth. They are opposites.

But I take issue with every verse of “Fool To Cry,” my second-to-least-favorite Stones song. (My very least-favorite is “Emotional Rescue,” which is so bad it embarrasses me to hear it.)

OK, in the first verse, his daughter sits on his knee and says, “Daddy, you’re a fool to cry.” Any child young enough to sit on her father’s lap does not have the worldly wisdom to make a remark like that.

In the second verse, we learn that he has a woman who “lives in a poor part of town.” She, too, advises him that he’s a fool to cry. (Actin’ the fool, as it were.) WHY IS YOUR WOMAN STILL LIVING IN A POOR PART OF TOWN? YOU’RE A RICH ROCK STAR. BUY HER A MANSION. Or marry her and move her into your mansion. That would be more cost-effective.

In the third verse, even his friends state that he’s a fool to cry. I find it hard to believe that Mick Jagger’s friends give him philosophical advice. Mick Jagger’s friends say things like,

“Hey, what’s the matter, man?
We’re gonna come around at twelve
With some Puerto Rican girls that’re just dyin’ to meet you
We’re gonna bring a case of wine
Hey, let’s go mess and fool around
You know, like we used to”
In case you think I do nothing but complain, my favorite Stones songs are “Paint It Black,” followed by “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” I was born in a cross-fire hurricane, after all.
…is wishful thinking, just like “Big bands will come back.” Nevertheless (and ever the more), I have a new Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt. It only has the band’s logo on it, not the name. The other day, the bus driver looked at my shirt and said, “Hawkwind?” No, but good guess.
Triscuits are trying to get you to just call them “‘–scuits.” Resist them. Also, “so you can Meijer any way you want” is to be avoided. Sure, it tells you how to pronounce it, but that could be accomplished without turning it into a verb.
S.G. will start sporadically featuring PERFUME REVIEWS. No, no one was saying, “World Leader, can’t you please include perfume reviews?” (Although I know that a few of you would be interested.) Yes, I should probably start a second blog for that purpose. No, I’m not going to actually do so. Partly because I’m too lazy and incompetent to manage more than one blog, and partly because I don’t plan to do this regularly. I’m not a collector, just a person on a signature-scent quest that seems to be lifelong.
I actually have been doing this informally for some time. In the unlikely event you want to read my reviews of a variety of cosmetic products, check out

MakeupAlley, where I have posted as Snakeskin, Wyrmiax, and, currently, CobraRose.

Cat Esmerelda thinks I have spent enough time writing this, and need to attend to her strange and varied needs.



Don’t Fear the Reaper

Allen Lanier, member of The Blue Öyster Cult. ...

Allen Lanier, member of The Blue Öyster Cult. Allen in the middle, Eric Bloom on the left, and Buck Dharma on the right. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let me start by saying that, after Mass this evening, Fr. Nunning and I were discussing technology, and he asked if I’m on Facebook. I answered affirmatively, and then blurted out, “And I have a blog!” So, um, hi, Father. This is a side of me you don’t often get to see. But actually, most people don’t often get to see it, because I talk very little.


You may all be wondering why I called you all together here again. So sit down, shut up, ignore the lamentable lack of security, and listen.

There is now another (another!) supervisor vacancy at Dispatch. We will soon be entirely unsupervised at this rate, and what will happen then? Will we all stop showing up, or start cussing at callers? WELL? This is getting to be like the O.J. Simpson trial, where I told Rom I’d end up on the jury, because I was the only U.S. citizen who’d assiduously avoided following the case. What I’m getting at is, I’ll end up being a supervisor, because no one else will want it, and they’ll say, “You have the most experience–Tag, you’re it!”

My campaign slogan:


–What do we want? BAN BABY CORN!

–When do we want it? REAL SOON!

(Note: “When do we want it? Real soon!” was stolen from Buckaroo Banzai, a movie no one remembers but me.)

I am accepting campaign contributions, in money or soft drinks. Wait a minute, Foxy’s tugging at my sleeve–

….Do I realize this is not an election? Well, of course! As if I could win an election. I am rousing the rabble to bring about a coup! Again. It’s our only chance of  getting the air conditioning fixed.


On a more somber note (as indicated by the above line of asterisks), I was saddened to learn yesterday of the death of Allen Lanier, keyboard player for Blue Oyster Cult. Don’t fear the Reaper, as they say, and may light perpetual shine upon you.

I saw the Reaper today. He was riding a black Harley on W. Franklin St. He was wearing a black German-soldier-style helmet, and had his face painted like a skeleton. He nodded somberly at me as our eyes met, as if to say, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, but I won’t be stopping by just yet.” I nodded back. Later, man.

“I Could Have Died Back There!”

Blue Öyster Cult (album)

Blue Öyster Cult (album) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have to (well, I don’t have to, but I am nothing if not polite) thank Nick for the subject matter of this post. He is currently at Busch Stadium, and remarked on Facebook that it was hot, and when I hear Busch Stadium and heat mentioned in the same sentence, this story comes to mind. Of course, Nick is just watching a boring ball game, and from the looks of things, getting drunk. (It’s like a game–One of These Guys is Not Drunk. Guess Which One and Win a Prize!) But I had an actual adventure! Of sorts. And involving alcohol, in a roundabout and icky way, as you will see.

Rom and I, in our early days (literally–I think we’d been together a month at most) went to Busch Stadium to see SUPERJAM ’78!! (You have to say it with all-capital letters and multiple exclamation points, just like when you say MID-AMERICA RACEWAY!! THE DRAG-RACING CAPITAL OF MID-AMERICA!!, which I was also at in the even remoter past. Ideally, you should say it with reverb, but I don’t know how to indicate that in print.) We were not actually there to see SUPERJAM ’78!! per se, but to see Blue Oyster Cult, my favorite band in those pre-R.E.M. days. (I’m guessing there aren’t many people who love both of those bands.) I had a stalker sort of fascination with B.O.C., which led to me writing a bad short story about them. And I saw them every time they came to St Louis.

St Louis has the same weather we do here, being in the Lower Midwest (or Mideast, as it should be called, if you just look at a map of the U.S., and when I rule the world I shall make it so) and on a big river. So, since SUPERJAM ’78!! was, I believe, in August, it was broiling hot, except that if you were being broiled, it would be less humid. And we got to sit with the teeming rock & roll masses on the floor? ground? of the stadium, which had been considerately spread with plastic, to protect the astroturf from our happy asses. So…sitting on plastic, blazing sun, being steamed like crabs…all the creature comforts. And to get to our place…we joined a long line threading our way through groups of people to get to a relatively unsettled area. The line stopped suddenly, but we couldn’t see why. It jerked forward intermittently, and then we found out why. Some guy had started drinking early, or just drank his beer to keep from dying of thirst, and passed out in a puddle of puke. So crowded you can’t step around it, so wide you can’t jump over it–and you didn’t want to try, lest you miscalculate, slip and fall right into it. The expression of each person in line as they discovered the situation was priceless. So, yes, I waded through puke to see Blue Oyster Cult. If only I could tell them.

{DIGRESSION: This is one of my two good puke stories. The other: We attended a party where a guy had puked in the gazpacho. The beauty part here is that gazpacho looks like puke anyway, so someone had to be stationed there to warn everyone who came up to the table until they could get it cleared away. [Gazpacho looks like human puke. Burgoo looks like cat puke. You’re welcome!] YES, YOU GET 2 PUKE STORIES FOR THE PRICE OF ONE! You’re welcome again!}

So, we were finally settled in a location free of vomit. Unfortunately, B.O.C. was next-to-last on the bill, and we had to suffer through various acts first, the only one I remember being Eddie Money, and I remember him because he, having stepped right out of air-conditioning, said, “Hey! Bet you all love this warm weather!” and we spoke of rushing the stage and killing him.

But B.O.C. finally came on, and they were supernal as always, and I surged toward the front of the stage, and lost track of Rom, and, well, was not as dutiful about finding him again as I was about being sure I could see the band really well. (Together for a month, and yeah, it’s a feeble excuse.) But he tracked me down, and loudly declaimed that “I could have died back there!” And I was embarrassed, although not as embarrassed as I’d have been if I’d passed out in some puke. And why it seemed to Rom that I was worth staying with in those days (hell, those first few years) is beyond me.

And they all lived happily ever after.

I would like to welcome Officer A.B., having been recommended to him by Nick, and can only hope I meet his expectations. Although I have my doubts, having just gone on at tiresome length about my semi-sleazy past life. And I can’t even say, Well, that’s not typical! Because, you know, it just is.

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