Leikur sem skilur á milli drengja og manna

Rétt í þessu barst mér sú frétt til augna að Ástin mín Baldur Knútsson væri að verða faðir í ágúst á þessu ári. Það ætti svo sem ekki að koma á óvart að móðirin er Svala nokkur ,,Posh" sem Fyrirliðinn féll fyrir þegar hún nuddaði á mér nárann... eða svona næstum því. Glæsilegt par.
Þar sem foreldrarnir væntanlegu eru annars vegar Manchester United aðdáandi en hins vegar West Ham aðdáandi þá eru verulegar líkur á því að barnið muni bera heitið Sheringham en ég vil þó biðja þau um að gleyma hvorki né útiloka nafnið Chadwick... þó svo að væntanlegur erfingi muni ekki erfa útlitið. Til hamingju með þetta yndislega parið mitt.
Það sem er hins vegar verra fyrir jafn ábyrgðarlaust og óþroskaðað barn sem undirritaður er, er að Baldur er þriðji fyrrverandi leikmaður Fram fæddur ´79 og ´80 sem á að eignast barn á þessu ári en áður höfðu Hagnaðurinn og Addi Jóns boðað komu frelsarans (allt mjög svo miklir hófdrykkjumenn eins og sjá má af myndum hér að ofan - það eru eflaust til betri myndir af Adda við það tækifæri og reyndar önnur) undirritaður hefur þegar náð samkomulagi við Ástmann sinn um að hann fái að vera sykur og súkkulaði og að hann reyni frekar að klukka einhvern af núverandi leikmönnum Framliðsins. Eru þá Keðjan og Feita barnið taldir líklegastir en hinn fótsnöggi trúbador, heimspekinemi og gallabuxnamódel Dr. AFO mun þurfa að hafa sig allan við til að halda einbeitingu svo að hann verði ekki klukkaður í þessum leik sem gerir drengi að fullorðnum mönnum - gætu ,,barnóðar konur" þó gert mönnum sínum skráveifu og jafnvel dregið úr hraða þeirra og villt þeim veg upp í gin ljónsins... Say no more (sjá mynd af bloggi frá 27.01.06).

Að lokum: Innilega til hamingju aftur Baldur og Svala.

Óður til fortíðar

Það er varla hjá því komist á stundu sem þessari, þegar vindurinn, snjórinn og skammdegið fara langleiðina með að buga mann að láta hugann reika til æskuáranna. Sumrin þegar menn voru lausir undan þjáningum vinnunnar og gátu vaknað um tíuleytið og keypt sér pylsu, superdós og bláar tyggjókúlur. Rölt svo niður á íkornavöll og varið öllum deginum í street ball með félögunum. Digable Planets í græjunum, menn í sínum Magic, Bird eða Jordan bolum - skot blokkuð, troðið í andlitið á mönnum, strætókörfum þrykkt í andlitið á fólki og show time-ið allsráðandi - sakleysið og æskan mætt, engar áhyggjur af launum, námslánum, íbúðalánum og öðru slíku - klinkið í vasanum hennar mömmu klikkaði aldrei - guði sé lof að fólk var ekki að þvælast um með kreditkort á þeim tímum. Látum hugann reika til þessara takktföstu gullaldarára sem koma aldrei aftur....

... [Ladybug]
The Bloom, the Swoon, the Sugars on your block
The Planets land in flesh in the corners of New York
The ghetto, the meadow, the Mr. Butter flew
The Honeybugs dug and licked the honey dew
The sun, the kiss, the funk for a bliss
The lips with the soul and some jazz for ya hips
The puff, the buzz, the lids be heavy slick
The Mecca get a rush when the beats be very thick
The hands, the feet, the brown baby treat
The femmes fumble loose and drink the doodlejuice
The steps, the flams, the Planets goddamn
The peoples get a grip with a tape from a jam
{all together}A nickel bag of funk (x8)

[Butterfly]
The big, the fat, the cool cool cats
The psychedelic soul puts the Planets on the map
The chic, the love, the far out name
The lack of the funk's the main why we came
The boogie gets done, the colors won't run
The funk hits the square, the kids gotta come
The pizza with the pop, the west 4th stop
The crew after crew that do the grasshop
The true cool is black, the new school is fat
The beats by the ounce, the funk by the pack
The hanging off the butts with the fat sole kicks

{all together}A nickel bag of funk (x8)

[Doodlebug]
The wide, the hip, dig it it's the trip
The loops, the scene and the funkifying it
The sounds, the pounds, the stacks, the flair
The baggy baggy jeans, the notty notty hair
The twinkle in the eye, the kids that livin' fly
The crew from the sky, the stuff that gets you high
The action, the work from the rhyme
We goes the whole nine
The papers won't rot, the vapors get got
The streets give the buzz the funk up your block
The opium groove, the smacked out soul
The kickin' it live the fat gotta roll

{all together}A nickel bag of funk (x8)

A nickel bag, a nickel bag Ladybug'll hit ya with a nickel bag
A nickel bag, a nickel bag Butterfly'll hit ya with a nickel bag
A nickel bag, a nickel bag Doodlebug'll hit ya with his nickel bag
A nickel bag, a nickel bag DPs always hit you with they nickel bag

(Digable Planets - Nickel bag of funk)

Texti dagsins

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'In this ocean of hours
I'm all the time drinkin'Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down"
Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looksYour voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve
But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good"
Cause you look an' you start getting the chills
"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin
'Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glowLook at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache´
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer backMy friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallantAnd make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God AlmightyTHAT STUFF AIN'T REAL"
No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital
And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown


(Bob Dylan - Last thoughts on Woody Guthrie)