Originally uploaded by NMEfoofoo.
When I was in grade school, I placed a little kitten underneath a storm drain (with a friend). Later, my dad would tell me a story about the awful things his own dad use to do to cats. I suppose I'm lucky that I didn't know with my grandfather because Dad says that he'd go the extra mile and kill them. I guess I'll never get to heaven for torturing a defenseless little kitten when I was nine or ten. I must've been a little terror at that age! Here is a picture of my loving Figaro. I'm trying to get my hand close enough to curl his whiskers upward ála Salvador Dali. Here you'll see my cat licking his lips as he builds an appetite for my fingers. My cat doesn't seem to mind the playful way I groom him, I only wish I was more skillful with my camera the way dooce shoots his hound. What am I preparing my readers for in describing myself as a hateful monster? Would I have lost readers if I had used the caption "EDUCATION CONTROL" for the Population control cartoon?
You have never been in love, Until you have seen the stars, reflect in the reservoirs/ And you have never been in love, Until you have seen the dawn rise, behind the home for the blind ¶ We are the pretty, petty thieves, And you're standing on our streets / Where Hector was the first of the gang with a gun in his hand / And the first to do time, the first of the gang to die, Oh my / Hector was the first of the gang with a gun in his hand / And the first to do time, the first of the gang to die, Oh my ¶ You have never been in love, Until you've seen the sunlight thrown, Over smashed human bone ¶ We are the pretty, petty thieves, And you're standing on our streets / Where Hector was the first of the gang with a gun in his hand / And the first to do time, the first of the gang to die, Such a silly boy / Hector was the first of the gang with a gun in his hand / And the bullet in his gullet and the first lost lad to go under the sod ¶ And he stole from the rich and the poor and not very rich and the very poor / And he stole our hearts away / He stole our hearts away, He stole our hearts away / He stole our hearts away, He stole our hearts away
I remember the worst thing of my childhood, like one day having unintentionally punched a kid and making him cry. I was scolded by the teacher for that to the point of almost making me cry. I believe this was the beginning of street life because when that happened, all my peers in that class knew they shouldn't play with me lest they get a punch 'accidentally' thrown to the face. It seemed that I got a bit of respect from the other bullies, but in 5th grade I lost a fist fight, and there went my reputation of a feisty rebel. I remember his name too. Hector. Another Hector I know lives in Mexico. He's totally opposite of the Hector who kicked my ass. My cousin works as a professor in a university, and Hector from elementary… who know what ever became of him. When I last saw my cousin, it was in Mexico where I took an exoneration from public school chemistry. I was recuperating from losing my high school sweetheart and drowning my sorrows in hallucinogens. I recall seeing a revolver dangling from a hook on the wall in my cousin's bedroom. I had gotten expelled for possession and got beat up beyond recognition.
I don't feel qualified to write any sort of review of the remainder of the Morrissey songs. FIRST OF THE GANG TO DIE seems like something my xgf might say to me if I ever said to her, "I still ❤ you". The previous song I reviewed, I ended on a tangent note because of the line And as for you in your uniform, Your smelly uniform. If you will indulge for a minute, I was the embodiment of Sylvester Stallone in full boxer getup, a losing punching bag, against a Russian behemoth. My face was pummeled into an over-ripened, blood squirting, persimmon face. I lived thru that fight, but described it to my parents as having been jumped by a gang of kids. I must've felt degraded having lost a fight to somebody a few years younger. It is because of that fight that I feel the song HOW COULD ANYBODY POSSIBLY KNOW HOW I FEEL refers to uniformed cops. Javier was the boys name who started to talk shit. I felt that I should stand up to him. In middle school, all my friends were odious of the ROTC, his group of friends. My mother tried to suggest to me that I join the Explorers, a program for street kids to get them out of the street, and quite possibly something he was involved in too. And this is how I developed a hatred for cops.