#apparently I'm a grumpy artist lately

[glacier-shrimp]

Duckies ✨

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #35:

Van Morrison's Veedon Fleece

To date I've put off writing about two of my favorite 60s/70s artists, Van Morrison and Joni Mitchell. This requires some explanation, as leaving either of them out of the Dollar Bin is like leaving rice and beans off your shopping list; life is better when you have these staples available at all times, yes?

In the case of Joni, I'm continuing to procrastinate because what the hell could I really say that's either of interest, insight or humor about her classic records? Um, they're classic; you should get your act together if you don't have them all memorized.

And when it comes to everything after Hejira, where do you even start? Um, well, they're less good. But you should still listen to them. What the hell else are you going to listen to right now? Your kids, you say? Your spouse? Tell them to simmer down and stand aside because it's time to crank Dancin' Clown loud in the living room.

Yep, that's Billy Idol doing his obnoxious thing in the track; apparently Tom Petty's involved too but he's smart enough to stay in the background. Yikes, this is not Joni's great hit.

Even so, I always plead with the student DJ's at my high school school's (that's where I work whenever I climb out of the Dollar Bin) dance's to slip this pop chestnut, along with the B-52's Love Shack, into the Winter Formal mix. I long for the terribly awkward, you see. (To be clear: I'm not a big Dancin' Fool fan. But Love Shack? That's my jam.) Happily, the students never listen to me. If they did I'd feel obligated to get down on my own like a Dancin' Clown.

Anyway, we'll all drink a case of Joni together at some point soon; maybe Mitchell Mondays will be a thing when Shakey Sundays start to wind down (which, at Neil's pace of releasing records should be around 2045). Thanks for your patience Joni!

I've been putting off Van for some of the same reasons I guess. He's not on Joni's level for me, but I recognize that every one of his records are either stone cold classics or have greatness within them up until the mid 70's. But then he hit a brick wall and, frankly, I've never taken the time to survey a lot of the wreckage. If you ask me How Long Has This Been Going On? (the self congratulatory name of Van's mid-90's record) I'll tell you, "beats the hell outta me; I don't listen to Morrison after Feel the Music."

After all, who wants to hear synthesizers mingling with old white man jazz moves, all of it fronted by back up singing ladies and Van's grumpy indifference? And don't even get me started on his recent anti-vax crusade; were I to meet Van today I'd mask up and tell him to get a goddamn life.

Yes, it's true: my buddy Greg, who's reading this right now and freaking out, tells me that No Guru, No Teacher, No Method, No Pizza, or whatever it's called, is a good record, and I'm sure he's right. But I have never found the energy to really listen to it.

Don't get me wrong: I hear Van about gurus; I don't have one either, and Dylan's song about working on one is terrible. But I am a teacher, so I don't appreciate Van trying to get me fired. And I tend to employ methods of all kinds, except while I'm pumping out this nonsense. Finally, I enjoy pizza. And Van apparently doesn't want me to have any. Damn it, Van: give me slice!

But I'm hear to tell you that Veedon Fleece is a Dollar Bin classic: it's soulful, weird, relaxing and elegant; plus, it's just about the last will and testament of Van the Man before he became No Plan Van.

I resisted this album for a long time, not giving it a chance until my late 20's. Why? Well, for one thing, I'm not that into domesticated animals - my cat Batty should be named Compromise, Surrender or Capitulate. Because that's what I did when we got her.

Just look at this beast, busy trying to block out the last 45 years of Morrison's career:

Van appears with giant dogs on the cover of Veedon Fleece, and that fact alone made me pass on this record in the Dollar Bin until around 2003.

The dogs on its cover look far too much like the drooling, child-eating ones my famous brother and I cowered before at ages 6 and 3 respectively at some babysitting co-op lady's house. There we stood, 4'1 and 3'nothing, doggie biscuits in hand, supplied by that well intentioned mother who'd sent us outside to greet them. In the face of all that sniffing, shuffling and terrifyingly hairy life-force my famous brother and I did the only reasonable thing at the time: we ate the doggie biscuits ourselves and then got the hell back in the house.

Frankly, I can't think of a single album cover which features domesticated animals and contains good music. Pink Floyd's Animals doesn't count: that pig ain't real. There are no dogs on the cover of Hounds of Love and the cat on Tapestry is benign. Joni's own Dog Eat Dog is majorly mediocre, Elvis / Old King is a grainy footnote to the cover of Everybody Knows this is Nowhere, and I'll be damned if I ever listen to the Alice in Chains' album with a dog on it or this other Van Morrison record which, for all I know, features the same terrifying dogs as Veedon Fleece, only this time they've been shorn and one is muzzled so as to leave the other free to gorge independently upon my flesh:

But somewhere in the early to mid-aught's my buddies Ryan and Ned cranked up the first song on Veedon Fleece's B Side as we rolled out of town, heading for a men's weekend in the desert. During that trip I melted my shoes in our dead yucca tree bonfire while wearing them (it's amazing what can happen under the influence) and fell in love with Veedon Fleece.

Here is that first track on the record's flip side, and it's the closest thing on the record to a pop single:

The song features just about all the wonderful bits Van had to offer back in the day: he grunts, warbles and shouts whenever he isn't soaring along, plus we've got driving acoustic guitar, chasing bass and drums, pick-me-up piano and complimentary six string riffs.

But the country folk rock of Bulbs, and the stately, epic white blues track that follows, Cul De Sac (which features what may be the greatest scream by a white male in popular music) are outliers on an album which is otherwise concerned with some of the most obscure and introspective music Morrison ever recorded.

Before we get into that truer tale of the record, here's Cul De Sac with its aforementioned scream ready for your pleasure at the 4:56 mark.

I once had a school-wide tug of war rope snap like gunfire in my hands, instantly shredding four of my fingers, one of which still feels funky ten years later. My scream was just as loud. But it was not musical.

Morrison recorded these two tracks separately from the rest of the record, and it shows. What's more, in true Morrison style, he basically wrote off the whole album afterwards: he's almost never performed any of the songs live and he spent the following few years singing only to his gargantuan hounds.

The other record Morrison has treated with similar disdain is Veedon Fleece's spiritual companion, Astral Weeks. Both records must be too thoughtful, complex and warmly spiritual for his liking. It's like he twice got caught gardening turnips in the nude by his neighbors and decided each time to skip town and bail on the mortgage as a result.

Take a listen to Veedon Fleece's opening track, Fair Play: all his ginormus dogs and lady friends are elsewhere; this is just Van, surrounded by sympathetic peers, searching for deliverance among magpie topics that veer from The Lone Ranger to Transcendentalism and back again.

Everything else on the record matches this yearning, graceful tone. Often you lose track of just how obscure and particular the lyrics are; indeed I often forget that Morrison is actually singing in a language I know.

The record's second and third songs depict a sensitive, San Fran everyman psychopath who wields a hatchet at human heads and never misses church on Sunday; the last two songs on Side A are is basically Van's own - albeit highly vague and vastly abbreviated - Intro to Major British Authors II course, and they are way better than the course I took by that title as an undergraduate. Every song flows together; every stands on its own; everything is supremely weird and lovely: what could be better?

But it's the record's two final, so-sparse-they-are-barely-there songs that mean the most to me. Come Here My Love is probably the last thing any of Van seventeen ex-wives ever want to hear him say again, but when he sings it you can dig why they all married him in the first place. It's pretty damn sexy, and if I were into 78 year old covid deniers who should never missed an open casting call to play The Penguin in the next Batman movie I'd swipe vigorously left or right or whatever direction indicates heavy interest on Van's Christian Mingle dating profile.

The album then closes with something even spacier, even sparser, even more astoundingly beautiful. Listen for the ghostly choir emerge way in the backspace, explore the majestic Country Fair:

There's nothing in his catalog that beats Morrison guiding the dense and stretched melody on this track. While the recorder forrays about on its own, Van leads every other musician, and all of us, on a brooding, Pied Piper ramble through endless green ways and shimmering, summer fields.

Country Fair, and Veedon Fleece as a whole, leave me incredibly sad and wonder struck at once. It's a Dollar Bin journey I'm always so eager to take. I'd even feel safe enough to reach out and pet Van's dogs if I came upon them mid-record. And if I had a dog biscuit in hand at the time I'd split it in three equal parts. Then we'd all enjoy it together.

[mlobsters]

supernatural s9e17 mother's little helper (w. adam glass)

noticed misha directed this episode, will be honest i don't take note of the director unless while watching something catches my eye

SAM Yeah? See, because ever since you killed Magnus, you've been acting... sort of...obsessed. DEAN Well, maybe because I want an end to all this. Maybe because if we find Abaddon, then Crowley ponies up the First Blade, and we kill her and him both. So, what you call being "obsessed," I call doing my job. SAM Okay, um... I get it, Dean. I'm just checking in. DEAN I'm fine.

nice brotherly (wait no not brotherly!) concern. and dean is TOTALLY fine. no issues here. he's just workin, sammy!

(sighing that it's a men of letters old timey thing, it's just not my jam on many levels)

so now is the mark making dean grumpy(er)? fic is giving me unrealistic expectations

always a good sign.

the whole bottle, dean? does the mark change your alcohol metabolism? i guess i don't know that it's the same day still. no sleep all booze makes moc!dean somethin not good

dude getting picked up by the van makes me expect a demon slice and dice phone call situation a la s1!meg. i don't remember what the blue light monster was. not a dragon is about all i got. oh right, vespa

do they ever use christo anymore? haha apparently not

Christo is God's name in Latin, will make a possessed person flinch. Despite many subsequent encounters with demons, this method of detection is not used again by the Winchesters. This has long been a bugbear of fandom.

one episode! until s14

DEAN Acting out how? SAM Well, same as the woman -- aggressive, violent, impulsive.

i wonder if dean is feeling some of these feelings too!!

CROWLEY You're lying to Sam like he's your wife, which kind of makes me your mistress.

ha ha

LOL from the side i was all SHIRLEY MACLAINE????

er s3e6 fear of flying - jenny o'hara as nurse rhonda sterling

i started an ER rewatch last year maybe? and her character was memorable even she was only in 2 episodes. givin trouble to our beloved nurse hathaway

huh never seen someone do that before. i appreciate them showing us his little routine for racking. show me that competency

DEAN What do you want? CROWLEY You tell me, romeo. You rang. Let me guess -- you butt-dialed me? DEAN Whatever the hell that is.

do you expect me to believe dean winchester doesn't know what a buttdial is??

CROWLEY What's going on with you, huh? You call me, you hang up. You want Abaddon, you don't want Abaddon. You want the Blade, you don't want the Blade. If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you're stalling. Just between us girls, how did you feel when you sunk the First Blade into Magnus' head? DEAN Not half as good as I'm gonna feel when it's yours. CROWLEY Love it when you talk dirty. You know what I think? I think you felt powerful... virile... and afraid. DEAN Afraid? CROWLEY Don't scam a scam artist, darling. You're stalling 'cause you're scared.

another thing that was lost a bit i think when crowley was straight evil, didn't get to see him being clever and insightful (in his assholeish way)

did i ever do a hiky for abaddon? don't think so. it's more noticeable to me now that you can't see the red hair

stargate universe s2e7 the greater good - alaina huffman as lt tamara johansen

JOSIE No. It -- it's pre-Enochian. A crest of some sort. Kni-- "Knights of Hell"? What is that?

reminded me to look up enochian, hadn't realized it was an actual thing

Enochian (/ɪˈnoʊkiən/ə-NOH-kee-ən) is an occult constructed language[3] — said by its originators to have been received from angels — recorded in the private journals of John Dee and his colleague Edward Kelley in late 16th-century England.[4] Kelley was a scryer who worked with Dee in his magical investigations. The language is integral to the practice of Enochian magic.

okay well this page says it was used by adam in paradise, so what came before that, how did she know what it said? bah

JOSIE I could be more useful to you. People underestimate a woman. MOTHER SUPERIOR No. That's not it. You love him. He loves you, too, you know. Like a sister.

LOL what. everyone's hot for the winchesters of all generations?? i thought she was offering because he had a family

CROWLEY I saw you. I saw the two of you together. Nothing like Cain? What's in that bottle? Delusion?

snorted

DEAN Where you going now? CROWLEY I'm going to go water the lily. Care to cross streams?

would love to see his face if sam or dean took him up on his propositions

do not understand the point of that baby hunter interaction. and why is he so clueless? with the swarms of demons that been around the past handful of years, surely even a freshly hatched hunter would know how to handle them? confusing.

JAKE But he did do exactly what you said he would. He saved you. CROWLEY Of course he saved me. We're besties. And now he's ready.

okay then :p that explains it.

bummer that dean is so grumpy now but he is extra pretty when he's like that

keeping souls in jars, okay. will this teach sam the lesson that when regular people lose their soul they turn into violent uncontrollable animals, but when he lost his soul he was just only sometimes violent and had a reason for it!

haha finally being practical, phone exorcism recording, hurray writers

nother episode where they're too busy to have an angsty we're-not-brothers-yes-we-are thing

well i'm grateful it wasn't a flashback heavy episode after all. this whole soul harvesting business is a lot more labor intensive than cas getting all those souls from purgatory

[bumbershots]

A CERTAIN ROMANCE

CHAPTER THREE: WHO ARE YOU?

Author’s note: Hello! Once more I would like to thank you all for the love this story’s been getting, it truly blows my mind. I am also looking for a beta reader so if anyone out there is interested let me know! (: Let’s pick up right where we left off...

Story masterlist ** Word count: 2.3K **

Two souls don't find each other by simple accident, Harry thought after taking a seat for the first time that night, his feet were probably going to be swollen tomorrow, they were killing him already. But he wasn't keen on turning down a dance from the girl collapsing in the settee right next to him. A slow Amy Winehouse song was their cue to rest.

"Do you want a beer?" Her voice sounded a bit hoarse, probably from all the giggling and singing she did while dancing the night away.

"Yes please."

He watched her trot to the small bar on the other side of the flat, focused on how the multiple bracelets bounced in her left wrist as she instructed her brother which beer to give her. As she came back to take her previous seat, he felt a small wave of anxiety for wanting nothing more than to start a conversation with her, as she handed him the beer. Usually it was the other way around, but in most of the cases, people wanted to know his persona.

He knew the silence was becoming awkward, but he was still debating whether to ask about her upbringing or what she did for work, whatever the case was, he didn't want to make a fool out of himself, he almost never seemed to be that lucky.

"You're not used to people being calm around you, are you?" Alma’s frown os curiosity is a mirror to the one on the musician's face.

"Yes and no?" Harry's coy tone makes her smile warmly and shake her head in denial, "so, I'm Hampstead station guy?" Her eyes widen, a shy smile appears on her full lips before she takes another large sip of her drink.

"It's unlikely to find the same person thrice in the tube! I told my friend Laura, it felt like a glitch in the matrix." She answers and he lets out an amused laugh.

"For the record, I wasn't following you, at all..."

"I know, you just had to take the same line I did and it was a happy coincidence," she interrupts him, the new song gathers a few more dancers and Harry wonders if she will ask him to dance again, "although it would've made a great anecdote for my YouTube channel; story time, a famous musician follows me around the city possibly plotting my painful death." She joked as she gingerly flashed her hands before the two of them, as if presenting the latest play from the West End.

It was Harry's eyes turn to be wide and smack his hand into his forehead.

"You have a YouTube channel?" His interest was genuine and Alma made herself more comfortable on the sofa, before proceeding to fill him in about what that was about, just videos about her 'sort of interviewing remarkable people' or so she claimed.

It was something that started as a class project back when she was seventeen, trying to get good grades to win a scholarship and study abroad —none of those things happened. She kept doing it afterwards because it was too much fun, once she interviewed all her friends, she moved onto her family. "Believe me when I tell you, that I have more relatives than I should!" With a smile as big as hers, he sighed before breathing 'lucky' as his heart sped and she continued.

Restaurant owners, chefs, firefighters, barristers, doctors, accountants, waitresses, sexual workers, sex shop employees, bankers, homeless people, hairdressers and apparently every person from her home country had been on the informal interview series. Harry was impressed with the whole concept and her.

"I sort of abandoned it a little when I moved here last year, it was crazy busy the first couple of months and the whole bureaucracy... and I was a little homesick to be honest." For the first time in the night, her voice is thinner, he has to lean in a few inches to hear better, "I miss my parents, my cousins, my aunt, my grandparents. But this is something I've wanted for the longest time you know?" Her eyes bore into his, allowing him to see the vulnerability swimming in them, "I've never felt like an outsider here, never got lost in the tube, took the wrong bus or anything like that. Isn't it weird?" Harry smiled at the sentiment, thoughts of his latest trip to Japan flashing before him.

"No, I think it's marvellous that you feel that way." He cannot be real, is the only thing running through her mind like a restless hamster in its wheel.

Harry and Alma talked about everything they didn’t have in common, despite the brief interruptions to do some shots and drink champagne with the birthday boy. Their families were discussed, their favourite things to do in the summer. Alma even asked him how was work going, as if she didn’t know that he was one of th world’s most successful artists. Harry was thrilled to joke through their drinks and the girl wasn't shy to ask him for a couple more dances. None of them noticed the partying dying around them, it was only after Fernando said his goodbyes to his laughing sister, that they noticed how late/early it actually was.

Before they knew it, golden hues streamed through the window behind them as Freddie walked out of his room and offered them coffee.

"I'm never drinking straight vodka again," Freddie mumbled to himself after finishing his cup of coffee.

"At least it wasn't Vodquila like last time," Alma's words make him groan but agree. "I should go now, need a shower and a healthy breakfast."

After Harry also admitted he needed to be on his way, with all their belongings gathered and after saying goodbye to a very ill Freddie, neither Harry or Alma looked forward to their imminent separation. He had spent hours hearing how busy she is, when not recording content, she was working at Wenzel's and teaching Spanish to her neighbour's daughter on the weekends. Still, he was determined to meet with her again.

As soon as they started moving down the street, Harry noticed the next one was where he had to turn right in order to go home. It wasn't a short walk but the most effective route for sure.

"So, the bus stop is that way," Alma nodded her head to the left, smirking knowingly as she stuffs her hands in her coat pockets.

"Of course," they had come to a rolling stop at the corner. Harry suddenly felt beyond nervous about asking the girl for her phone number. "Thank you, for keeping me company last night." It was amazing he wanted to add, but licked his lips quickly instead.

"You mean keeping you from catching up with all your friends," she corrected him.

Harry shakes his head and smiles, the dimples graciously adorning his cheeks, his racing heart giving him the last push needed to finally ask. "Do you think we could go, like for coffee... sometime?” With that she laughed, immediately memorising the sound of it, her loud cackle is one of the nicest things he has heard in awhile.

"Only if I can buy you something from the selection of pastries." Harry laughed loudly, completely relieved by her answer. She dug around her purse for a moment before taking out a pen and what seemed to be an old receipt, quickly scribbling down her number and handing it to him.

"I'll call you," he beamed, carefully placing the piece of paper in his wallet. He'd be an idiot to lose such a precious fragment of information.

"Looking forward to it," Alma smiled at him for one last time before she started walking to the opposite direction. "See you around Harry." His face was a bit puffy from not having slept properly, but she would be lying to say he didn’t look adorable at the same time.

He waved and watched her walked away, her sweet and tired morning smile seemed to be engraved into the musician's mind as he headed home.

The air was still a bit cold, but the heat was starting to rise and plague London for the rest of the day, the hot summer everyone's been yearning for was finally here, even Harry could feel it in his bones as he continued down his path. He was still highly enamoured by the amazing night he spent sharing a piece of himself with Alma. His feet felt heavy, were even burning a little, but it was nothing as he made his way through his home gate twenty minutes later.

He decided to get some toast and a cuppa for breakfast, his high spirits not faltering even one bit although he could feel the consequences from the all-nighter already with each yawn. After eating he decided to take a shower that got him ready for a well deserved sleep in his comfortable bed.

Waking up around six o'clock startles him at first, Harry is well rested now but a bit grumpy for the weird taste on his tongue, something usual after drinking beer. He scolds himself for not brushing his teeth earlier as he walks in his bathroom. The cool tiles against his bare feet wake him up a bit more. After some needed dental hygiene, Harry gets dressed to go out and pick up his sister for their weekly dinner. Hopefully he can convince her to stay in, that way he can go on and on about the events from the night before.

His feet still hurt, he can even feel a blister underneath his big toe. But it doesn't bother him, it's actually a nice reminder of the incredible things that miraculously happened. Harry knew that since Alma was related to Fernando, someone that was bound to be in his life for the next six months or so, there was a big chance they would've met at some point. But he'd rather think it was fate, some sort of good karma coming round, he stared at her contact on his phone, still charmed by the fact that she gave it to him on the back of a receipt. Ignoring that she only did it that way, because the thought of asking for his mobile to enter it herself, was a very bold move. And Alma wasn’t really that confident, not when his green eyes were boring into hers anyway.

"When are you gonna call her then?" Gemma's voice snaps him out of his daydream for the third time during their quiet dinner in her flat. "What is it? You've got that look."

"What look?" He asks before his sister frowns and pinches her bottom lip with her thumb and index finger. It's his nervous quirk, he sighs, "I don't know, I'm just so nervous." Without a valid reason, he knows the girl is so lovely, maybe that's why.

"You're afraid of fucking it up," she knows, Harry nods. "Well, you could tell her that, perhaps on a text—

"—I want to call her, texting her will make me feel a wanker." Gemma smiles at her little brother, he looked uncharacteristically unsure of himself but nonetheless excited. It was endearing how the first thing he told her after crossing her home's threshold was 'my life is officially a chick flick!' Before proceeding to explain with detail about the whole situation.

"What about a text that reads: hello, this is Harry please save my number so when I find the guts to call you, you don't think it's a telemarketing scam," Gemma might be joking and mocking him all at once, but has a point. A text so she also has his number, makes the situation more even, she can call him too. "Assuming she gave you a real phone number."

"What?" Harry is mortified.

"I'm kidding, you should've seen your face," his sister wanted to drag a bit more her joke, but the preoccupied look on his face stopped her. Gemma couldn't wait to tell their mum, knowing that she would be just as absorbed. "There's nothing wrong with showing interest right away. If you want this to be honest and genuine, set an example." She finished before taking the last bite of pizza.

Harry knew that to be true, but now he was left wondering if it was the right time for him. Had he really left behind all the ghosts and baggage from his past? Or was he still carrying them in the new tattoos of his knees?

Despite his sister's encouraging words about how nothing could go wrong this early with Alma, he couldn't help but wonder if his still grieving heart was ready.

He takes his time walking back home, not caring if it was a really long one, he was aware of the curious eyes once he reached the Southbank but paid no attention to them. He welcomed the chill breeze, hoping for it to cool his boiling mind. Remembering the last time he walked along the river arms around his former flame, her laughter still ringing in his ears, her tender kisses in his knuckles, her delicious scent flying away with the airstream into London's sunshine.

Missing someone is not wrong, Harry reminds himself.

There's no point going down the rabbit hole of what ifs about their relationship. Harry can admit his mistakes, no matter how hard it comes to him, he can also apologise wholeheartedly. He did all those things already, months ago. Which is why he was able to keep her as a friend, not a close one, more like an acquaintance. And she's happy, he can see that, knows it.

Why does he feel like he's still drowning? He's already been pulled from the vast ocean of hers. Harry groans, struggles to open his gate, his good spirits from this morning nowhere to be found.

He doesn't know if it's the memory of her, the fear of loneliness, coincidence and laziness, or a bad habit? But he doesn't text the girl with warm brown eyes, instead he plays the voicemail that sometimes haunts his nightmares, on repeat, for the rest of the night.

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