There’s a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head.
I’ve had two songs dancing around my head together for the last day. Because of that I realize that they are companionable and could be turned into medley. But I’m quite sure the world isn’t ready for a blend of this rough and rowdy drinking song and Lady Gaga’s Poker Face. Which is a techno pop dancing song. And we all know that drinking and dancing never go together.
Even if I weren’t doing this little project of mine I most probably would have called this post as I have done here because the Sickbed has been dominating my life to the point of breakdown. Not mine–my brother’s. My YOUNGER (read: 34) brother was in the hospital for a week with a heart problem that was caused by a mystery and can be fixed by a mystery. He finally got to leave late last evening,
sent home with a James Bond-style vest that monitors his heart and transmits all the details back to his cardiologist. As he told men”You’d just demand they put a pacemaker in you and be done with it. You’d scream about your every move being tracked.” Ahhh. He knows me so well. Because I indeed would. I find such
things very creepy. It’s a wonder I’m a Christian after all those childhood lessons about God and Jesus being omnipresent. Really, though, I’ve decided to make an exception for God, Jesus and my dogs. No one else can follow me everywhere. As it is I seem to already be leading quite a parade.
I melted down last night around six o’clock. (Oh, yeah. We’re back to the whole “sickbed” thing.) Days of little or no sleep and the stress of worry and not knowing all combined with the fact that I am the main topic of conversation at events I don’t attend (i.e. my family’s Sunday dinners) and caused me to sit in a puddle of tears at my computer. Well, no. They caused the puddle of tears. The arthritis that froze my knees caused me to be at my computer because I couldn’t walk up the stairs. It was a bad moment.
Since I’ve been listening heavily to the Pogues and I knew I was doing this song project I did actually think of this song (and Shane MacGowan in general) while I sat here melting into saltwater and I wondered how anyone could willingly incapacitate themselves. I don’t get it. Of course I’m of Welsh descent which means I belong to that strain of Celts that hides in the mountains and pores over herb lore. As opposed to MacGowan’s strain that seems to be one of whiskey and tooth loss.
So is it any wonder that I’m slowly losing my mind, thinking of whiskey and heart problems and Shane McGowan and Lady Gaga and Welsh folk medicine?
The ghost is rattling at the door and the devil is in the chair.