Four Vignettes

I don't know what this is. Maybe it was inspired by my Spotify Wrapped? I'm still not sure I'm using the word "pastiche" correctly. I pulled at a few different threads and I wove this, whatever it is.

I.

Robert Sheehan is outside my window again. Lucky for me, I'm on the 2nd floor, in my writer's studio above the corner bodega and he's standing on the sidewalk.

The window is open.

"Eileen!" he shouts up. "Come on, Eileen."

I leave my chair, push aside the pink-and-gray buffalo check curtain and peer down at him. 

Putting his Irish accent on thick, he sings, "Believe me, if all those enduring young charms..."

"I'm dreaming," I say, interrupting his croon. "This is because I said you should play Kevin Rowland in a movie about Dexys Midnight Runners."

"Not a dream," he half-says, half-sings. "Don't you want to come down and go for a walk with me, just around the neighborhood?"

"No." The smell of hot tortilla chips warming in the bodega below makes my nostrils flare. I imagine the salt crystals on their flat surfaces. Craving the warmth and salt, I feel a hunger pang.

"Why not?"

"I've got things to do."

"Like what?"

I gesture at my laptop. "I have to write things. Legitimate things, fresh things, not just this Joyce Carol Oates pastiche."

"Eileen, you ain't telling the truth."

"Not my name," I remind him.

"Eileen, Erin, whatever. This is your day set aside for going for a walk with me and you know it."

I feel threatened. I close the window and go back to my laptop.

II.

I walk into the little Historic Downtown Irvington shop on Washington Street that used to be the ice cream shop that sold bubble tea. I see the new owner has rebranded it as a 1950s-themed nostalgia diner. The bubble tea options and anime keepsakes are gone, but the ice cream counter remains, as do about a dozen shiny, chrome milkshake blenders.

The brightly lit Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner plays “Drugstore Rock'N'Roll” by Janis Martin. The cheerful song paints the perfect picture of midcentury innocence.*

At one high table sits Edgar Allan Poe. His dark brown suit fits him well, although the foot that dangles from the long-legged chair has an untied shoelace. Catching me in his blue-eyed gaze, he says, “This was her favorite place.”

I’m confused. He died in the 1840s, over a century before the trope of the ‘50s malt shop emerged.

“I’m sorry?” I say. “ 'She’ is –?”

“Was,” he corrects me. “She was my Annabel Lee.”

I shake my head as I take the seat across from him. He offers me a sip of his milkshake, turning the straw toward me. I know I shouldn’t, but I indulge myself in a sweet sip of Poe’s chocolate malt.

I then continue, “This couldn’t have been her favorite place; that’s a line from that MC Lars song, 'Annabel Lee R.I.P.’”

He shrugs. Poe looks sad and beautiful but not morose. Despite his Gothic reputation, there’s nothing gloomy or goth about him. He’s every bit the Southern gentleman, gracious and effortlessly charming. I want to touch his dark hair where it starts to curl, just behind his ear.

I excuse myself to use the restroom. In the mirror, my eyes are less green and much more hazel than usual. Am I Christian Bale? No, I’m Augustus Landor. My clothes are careworn and I want to go back to my cottage.

Well, perhaps one more sip of Poe’s chocolate malt first.

*The song is about a drugstore. The former drugstore with the soda fountain, the one robbed by John Dillinger, is up the block a bit and on the other side of the street, across from the present-day library.

III.

John Legend, wearing a fashionable off-white suit, sits at his white piano, playing me a Christmas song in front of a roaring fire. Actually, he’s singing me “The Christmas Song.”

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”

“Happy birthday,” I blurt out.

“My birthday isn’t until the 28th. I’m an after-Christmas baby.”

I say, “You’re the Christmas baby; you’re Jesus Christ Superstar.”

He laughs, and I can’t tell whether he’s more surprised or amused.

Presently the fireplace-warmed air grew hotter. This was no winter wonderland. Were we in Jerusalem? Beyond John I spot a man with copious sandy-blond hair wearing black eyeliner and a keffiyeh.

“Judas,” I say upon the appearance of Tim Minchin.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, approaching John, seemingly moving in to kiss him. They lock eyes and I feel I’m witnessing something I’m not meant to see.

“…Superstar,” I mutter to myself as I turn away to give them their privacy. I muse aloud, “I can appreciate casting Alice Cooper as King Herod; I appreciate his showmanship. You know else might have made an interesting casting choice? Murray Head, the original album-Judas Superstar, coming back to play King Herod.”

We stand before his throne now: King Murray Head.

Blame W. Somerset Maugham. He had a birthday (January 25), I remembered that his Oriental Hotel suite is name-checked in “One Night in Bangkok,” and soon I’m detecting something wistful in Murray Head ballads that speaks to me as something other than merely an ‘80s kid.

“Now see what you’ve done?” Jesus Christ Superstar admonishes me. “You chose to lean fully into your 1980s nostalgia and now I’m going to be crucified.”

Is Tim Minchin Judas wearing lip gloss? And is it a bit smudged now?

“I’m not interested in matters of Jewish law tonight,” King Murray Head says in the crispest English accent you’ve heard since Ralph Fiennes. Offering me a doubtful smile, he adds, “My dear, would you care to join me in the Somerset Maugham Suite?”

“I thought you got your kicks above the waistline, sunshine,” the saucy Aussie chimes in.

King Murray Head shrugs. “I’m only human. We can’t all be Jesus Christ Superstar.”

I’m sexualizing that old man. I desire him carnally. But will he love me tomorrow? I'm guessing no, but that's ok. Nothing lasts forever.

IV.

I’m tucked snugly, quite comfortably into my 4-post bed, the curtains drawn around me, blissfully asleep in the warm and the dark. The sound of my name awakens me.

“Who’s there?” I ask. It had better not be Robert Sheehan.

“Charles Dickens,” comes the reply. This is what I get for reading Greg Jenner’s Dead Famous before bed.

But I know that distinctive voice. I part the bed curtains. “Dan Stevens?!” I ask incredulously, laying eyes on the extremely handsome English actor in the early morning light.

“It’s Charles Dickens,” Dan Stevens insists. He’s brought a friend.

“And John Forster,” adds Justin Edwards-in-Victorian-costume.

Accepting that these British thespians are in character as their The Man Who Invented Christmas counterparts, I ask, “Are you the Ghosts of Christmas Past? Am I dreaming?

“Neither,” says John/Justin, pulling a pie sprinkled with sugar seemingly out of nowhere.

That explained nothing. I thought back to Robert Sheehan telling me his creepy Oatesian visit wasn’t a dream. I then grew distracted by the state of my bedroom, suddenly filled with evergreen trees and boughs decorated with silver baubles, iridescent glass bubbles, and magical flickering candles. I smelled cinnamon and cloves; was someone mulling red wine in my bedroom?

It was beginning to look a lot like Victorian Christmas and smell like it too. My chamber suddenly possessed a long dining table on which there lay a roasted turkey, an enormous figgy pudding, and a rapidly-multiplying host of 19th-century holiday delicacies that would have made Ichabod Crane’s head explode.

“And you’re saying you two are not the Ghosts of Christmas Past?” I asked my guests for clarification.

Seating themselves at the table, they denied being ghosts a second time as they helped themselves to a portion of the mouth-watering feast.

“Tuck in,” said Charles/Dan.

I serve myself, but soon notice how the actors favor each other’s company, eat from each other’s plates, and feed one another. They’d constructed an elaborate ritual that allowed them to touch one another without social judgment.

“What is this?” I wonder out loud.

“You could think of it as recursion,” Charles/Dan says. “Each Christmas harks back to every other Christmas. This Christmas reminds you of childhood Christmases, which in turn retains elements of Victorian Christmas past, which in turn bears marks of earlier traditions, and so on.

“One might say,” remarks John/Justin, “that, in a sense, there has only ever been one Christmas and we return to it every year. We practice the myth of eternal return when we practice Christmas.” His thumb traces a line of cream that Charles/ Dan has smeared on his cheek, then eats the errant cream.

“I still don’t understand why I’m here,” I say. “Why was it necessary for me to be the Scrooge in this drama?”

“It isn’t,” Charles/Dan says flatly. “We merely need your bed.”

With that they abandon their feast and retire to my comfy bed, drawing the curtains behind them. I politely ignore their pleasured sighs as I slice into a steaming plum pie, but internally I wish they’d gotten a different room. I knew the Somerset Maugham Suite at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok had recently been vacated.

* * *

Author’s Note: Oliver Sacks wrote that Charles Dickens had a haunted mind, but didn’t explain that statement and then very sadly passed away. I began to understand it when I read about the railway accident he was involved in. I now believe that perhaps Dr. Sacks also meant that Dickens was haunted by his childhood poverty. This is depicted in The Man Who Invented Christmas and discussed in Dead Famous.

But then in this podcast, Helena Kelly spilled the absolute tea on Dickens and found out that he might have been lying about working in a boot blacking factory?! And he probably had syphilis, which he gave to Kate and the children - some of them may have died from it! - and maybe her sister too?! I don’t want to slut shame Charles Dickens, but I do think I understand what Dr. Sacks meant a lot more deeply now.

This is an affiliate link: https://amzn.to/3RdXQwk

But I wouldn’t be sad if the ghost of Dr. Oliver Sacks wanted to visit me and talk about it. 

Almanac for March 5th

Erin O'Riordan's Almanac for March 5th: https://ko-fi.com/post/March-5-P5P7J8KM5

Artist Birthday: Murray Head

Beatles Trivia

March 5, 1963: The Beatles record “From Me to You” at Abbey Road.

Sunday, March 5, 1995, South Bend: Having read The Plague, I turned to a library book titled The Worst Rock and Roll Records Ever Made: A Fan's Guide to the Stuff You Love to Hate by Jimmy Guterman and Owen O’Donnell [ISBN 0806512318 9780806512310].

Here’s a list of some of the songs and bands Guterman and O’Donnell love to hate:
1. “Dancing in the Street” by Mick Jagger and David Bowie
2. “Eve of Destruction”
3. “American Pie”
4. The Doors
5. Mick Jagger’s brother Chris
6. The U2 album The Unforgettable Fire (which includes “Pride (In the Name of Love);” see April 4)
7. Ringo Starr’s albums Stop and Smell the Roses and Old Wave
8. Really anything done by Ringo Starr and (especially) Paul McCartney after the Beatles
9. The 1981 live Rolling Stones album Still Life
10. Duran Duran

Bummer March 5th

March 5, 1963: Musicians Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and Hawkshaw Hawkins perish when their Piper PA-24 Comanche aircraft crashes in a forest in Tennessee during stormy weather. The pilot is also killed. Cline’s epitaph reads, “Death Cannot Kill What Never Dies: Love.”

March 5, 1977: In an unfortunate accident at the South African Grand Prix, English driver Tom Pryce struck and killed 19-year-old race marshal Frederik "Frikkie" Jansen van Vuuren, whom he couldn’t have seen in time. Jansen van Vuuren had run across the track with a fire extinguisher to rescue Italian driver Renzo Zorzi. Zorzi was trapped in his burning car while trying to remove the oxygen pipe from his helmet. 

The 40-pound fire extinguisher struck Pryce’s car and came through his windshield, striking Pryce in the head, forcing his helmet upward at a sharp angle, causing severe head and neck injuries that killed him instantly. Pryce’s car struck Jacques-Henri Laffite’s car and both vehicles struck the barrier and came to a stop.

Zorzi was not injured. The eventual winner of the 1977 South African Grand Prix was Austrian driver Niki Lauda, who had almost burned to death in the 1976 German Grand Prix.

March 5, 1982: Albanian-American comedian John Belushi dies of a drug overdose.

All of My eBooks Are Free on Smashwords, March 1-7, 2026

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My Spotify Top 99 of 2023, Annotated, Part I

1. "Sex on Fire" - Cannons (cover)

2. "Batman, Wolfman, Frankenstein or Dracula" - The Diamonds

3. The Greatest Show - movie cast

4. A Place Above - Jehnny Beth, Cillian Murphy

5. "Binz" - Solange Knowles

6. "Goo Goo Muck" - The Cramps. From the soundtrack of Netflix's Wednesday, of course.

7. One Night in Bangkok - Murray Head

8. "Not Enough Time" - INXS

9. "Until You Come Back to Me (That's What I'm Gonna Do)" - Aretha Franklin. As I heard on a plane on Monday, June 12, 1995. 

10. "My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors" - Moxy Fruvous

11. "Runaway Crush" by Stella Soleil [Part of a really long journal entry written on Thursday, July 29, 2021] Super deep dive into a Disney program here, but to return to Baron Zemo for a moment, someone on Tumblr translated the title of a book that Zemo is seen reading while on a plane with Sam and Bucky, the Falcon and the Winter Solder. The book is in German; the English translation is How to Say No to the One You Love: Demarcation and Devotion in the Erotic Relationship. Well, that is a weird book for Zemo, a widower who has been in prison for the last few years, to be reading. Apparently one shot shows where he is in the book, and he's reading a chapter called "Same Sex Fantasies in Heterosexuals."

Um, does Zemo think that the best approach to manipulating Bucky is to try to seduce him? Now that Bucky can't be manipulated with code words anymore? Or does he have a different love interest in mind? Or is he just genuinely attracted to Bucky? But you can't trust him because he's a master manipulator.

So, uh, yeah, I'm still a little hung up on Captain America and the Winter Soldier. And now we wait until November 24 for the Hawkeye series starring Hailee Steinfeld as Kate Bishop.

One more thing about She by Theodora Siranian. [This is a poetry chapbook I'd found at Irvington Books & Vinyl.] 

"Oh my god, Erin, you can't just sit around with a hardbound journal writing about poetry and media all day."

Oh, but can't I, though?

This is an excerpt from "Some Infinite Thing:"

"choosing to listen
to you die
through the telephone
while thinking
about fucking strange men,
in strange places, running
my tongue along
their bodies like some
desperate, wintered animal 
to the salt lick,
pupils to the peripheral, always
the exit, the exit,
the exit."

[Note: "wintered animal" might be a typo. A Freudian slip. The text might actually read "wounded animal."]

Juxtaposition of death and sexual imagery to highlight the contrasts between life and death: a poetic technique as old as time. But the salt lick imagery is what's appealing to me. I've had salt and salt licks stuck in my head like a meme or earworm lately, for a number of reasons:

1. Possibly back on July 13th, I heard an episode of the podcast Cult or Just Weird. The episode was about Throwawaylien - that is a Reddit (online messaging board) user's name which is a play on "throw away" and "alien." Throwawaylien claims he gets abducted by aliens once every 7 years. His story is wild, but the one detail that sticks in my brain is that, he says, the aliens always give him a gift of salt when they return him, apparently because they recognize that we need electrolytes to live.

too long/didn't read: Salt is the typical gift given to humans by space aliens.

2. There's this on Tumblr by a native speaker of the Russian language about Daniel Brühl's bad Russian pronunciation in Captain America: Civil War. The original poster (op) says when Brühl, as Baron Zemo, says Bucky's trigger word "soldier," which is "soldat" in Russian, he sounds like he's either saying it in baby talk or asking Bucky "want some salt?" Apparently he's saying the L in "soldat" in a very German way and not the correct Russian way.

So now I think "want some salt?" is either something aliens say when they return you from abduction or a thing you say to your kidnapped mind-controlled supersoldier to get him to comply.

3. This one's a much looser connection because it's a misheard song lyric, but I recently rediscovered the Stella Soleil song "Runaway Crush." Ugh, such a great song. According to online lyrics aggregators, the proper lyrics of a certain line are, "I'm kissing the soft of your skin/It's like a runaway sin." But I always mishear "soft of your skin" as "salt of your skin."

So...that's a rather random collection of salt images....

Yep, that's what goes on inside my mind: Poetry, salt, and horniness.

My Top 100 Songs of 100: 60-51

60. "Buffy Theme" The Breeders - instrumental, on the Reading Playlist. My mom watched Buffy; I never did. But I know it had Anthony Head, the brother of Murray Head.

59. "Demons" Imagine Dragons - on the Destiel playlist

58. "Rebel Rebel" David Bowie

57. "Telephone" - Lady Gaga, Beyoncé

L-L-L-Lobster Phone

L-L-L-Lobster Phone 

https://www.tumblr.com/thatwritererinoriordan/750834452546125824/nacaru-cc-by-40?source=share

56. "Baby Daddy's Weekend" Elle King - fluffy summer party song about getting drunk and high

55. "Fictional Men" Peggy - is this the only song on the list that makes explicit mention of the COVID-19 quarantine? I hope so. I feel like I dug deep enough back into that trauma when I read Amanda Gorman

54. "Crush" Billianne - feels true. That IS what it feels like to have a crush

53. "No Ordinary Love" Deftones - Destiel playlist

52. "Stand Inside Your Love" - Smashing Pumpkins

51. "A Bar Song (Tipsy)" - Shaboozey - interpolates "Tipsy" by J-Kwon, which reminds me of the years I worked at a child & adolescent mental health facility and alternative school. It came out in January 2004

Vignette the Third: Ghosts Who Smile at Me

Vignette the First

Vignette the Second

"The poem I just wrote is not real.

And neither is the black horse

who is grazing on my belly.

And neither are the ghosts

of old lovers who smile at me

from the jukebox." - Joy Harjo

Joy Harjo. Library of Congress Life, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

I walk into the little Historic Downtown Irvington shop on Washington Street that used to be the ice cream shop that sold bubble tea. I see the new owner has rebranded it as a 1950s-themed nostalgia diner. The bubble tea options and anime keepsakes are gone, but the ice cream counter remains, as do about a dozen shiny, chrome milkshake blenders.

The brightly lit Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner has a hastily printed-off sign that reads, in Comic Sans font, "Do Not Play the Jukebox."

I glance around the diner. The only occupied booth is in the corner, where a snappily-dressed 20-year-old Edgar Allan Poe can't take his pale blue eyes off his broad-shouldered, 49-year-old date. Augustus Landor is dressed somewhat more shabbily than the young dandy he's courting but appears to be no less enthralled by his partner's company. Their table is littered with empty beer bottles, in the midst of which sits a single milkshake with two straws.

I sit at the counter and order a vanilla Coke and a veggie burger with lettuce, tomato, and pickles. As the server delivers my Coke, I ask her, "What's up with that jukebox? Is it broken?"

"Not broken, exactly," she says. She has a working class London accent, tall black hair, and an abundance of retro tattoos.

"Does it play songs that are also clues to local crimes like in Marlene Perez's Dead Is book series?"

"Nah, I don't think so," the server says, snapping her gum. "That's not it. It's just been acting weird ever since that writer Joy Harjo came in and played it."

I pause to think. Is she being subtly racist, maybe unintentionally, attributing some kind of magic to Harjo because the poet is an indigenous woman? Maybe she attributes magic to all poets. Isn't what they do with words a sort of magic, after all?

"Weird how?" I ask at last.

She reaches into her apron, produces a shiny quarter, and tosses it to me. "See for yourself."

I take her quarter to the jukebox and drop it in the glowing slot. I don't select a song from the touchscreen; I don't get the chance to touch the screen before the first notes of "Come On Eileen" play.

I shrug. "So it doesn't let you choose the song," I say, turning to the server. "That's not so unusual."

"Look again," she says, pointing to the jukebox. I turn back to its brightly-lit display and notice, for the first time, the faint outline of a face. Is it my reflection in the glass? But no, the faint outline becomes clearer, as if I'm looking into a crystal ball and an image appears from the clouded interior.

I know this face. He's Robert Sheehan. This time, he doesn't call me Eileen. He doesn't say a thing. He only smiles.

Well, not ONLY smiles; his eyes follow me as I shake my head. I move to the left and his eyes track me. I sense awareness, maybe even intelligence. I know the image I see isn't the real Robert, but it isn't exactly a mere image either.

"See what I mean now?" the server asks me. "The fuckin' thing's haunted. It shows you exes, old boyfriends and like that."

"It showed me my Annabel Lee," says Poe from the corner. "It played Gus a waltz and showed him his late wife."

Augustus groans. "Could I get another beer?" he asks the server.

"Eerie," I say, rummaging in my jeggings pocket for another quarter. I find one and feed it into the jukebox. Apparently its powers included showing me the faces of the dead as if they were alive and well; I wanted to test this property. "Play some Johnny Cash."

But it doesn't. As Robert Sheehan's smiling face fades away, the opening incidental music of "One Night in Bangkok" fades in and I glimpse the smiling face of Murray Head.

I smile back, remembering some of the sweetest hours of my life spent with the singer in the luxury of the Somerset Maugham suite.

The illusion is broken as the black-haired server sets my veggie burger on the counter. I sit and eat in happy reminiscence as the song plays out, my eyes darting between the jukebox and my burger.

The song cross-fades into "Are You Jimmy Ray?" and I wonder whose smiling face I'll see. Will it be my old friend Uma, whose first child Maya is now a grown woman, actor, and singer herself? Will it be my ex-flame Tim, complicated and morally gray, sometimes a peaceful Buddhist and at other times capable of great inner darkness?

The mysterious jukebox surprises me by showing me the face of my dear, departed friend James Dean. His smile is radiant. He looks so happy it gives me a little pang in my chest.

"You see?" says the server as she takes away my empty plate. "That's a dead boy, innit? It's right spooky. That Joy Harjo did something to it. She didn't have a quarter, she said, so she tried to pay for a song with a poem instead. Ever since she put her poetry into the, the bloody thing's been going off like a fortune teller's crystal ball."

"Amy!" pipes up Poe, addressing the server. "You didn't tell me you accepted poetry as payment!"

"Now don't you start, Eddie," says the server, whose name tag I can now clearly see says Amy. I think she might be less spooked by dead boys than she's been letting on. "You be a good boy and pay for your food and beers with your American dollars."

"You know he doesn't have any money," says Landor, with a slight slur to his voice after he's finished his last beer. He reaches across the table and takes Poe's hand. "Not that you need worry about paying the tab when you're with me. Old Augustus will keep body and soul together for you, Eddie."

Poe smiles and for a moment I think they're going to kiss. Maybe they do. I'm looking at the jukebox and the radiantly happily, eerily glowing face of James Dean, his eyes following my every move.

As he fades away, the notes of "Helter Skelter" fade in. Will I see a Beatle? Could John or George pay me a visit? And does the diner seem suddenly warmer?

I soon realize the reason for the extremely localized heat wave. I see the face of Steve McQueen, whom I first encountered steaming hot and soaking wet when I stumbled into the room as he took a bath.

As if reading my mind, Amy sets another icy vanilla Coke on the counter. I grip the straw and sip eagerly, thirsty in more ways than one. Steve's smile makes me feel like I'm evaporating into steam.

***

The vignette I just wrote is not real. But it does contain affiliate links.

Almanac for May 18th

Erin O'Riordan's Almanac for May 18th: https://ko-fi.com/post/May-18-Go-Tell-It-On-the-Mountain-C0C01FR4CC

Author Julie S. Howlin post of the day: Bertrand Russell

Bummer May 18th

May 18, 1927: Local school board treasurer Andrew Kehoe rigs explosives inside the Bath Township, Michigan elementary school to explode. He murders his wife and sets his house and barn on fire. Kehoe also fills his automobile with nails and explosives, detonating it and killing himself and sending shrapnel flying. The local mail carrier loses a leg when the vehicle explodes and later dies from his injuries. 

As a result of the school explosion and detonation of the vehicle, 38 children and a total of five adult victims are killed. The exact reason for Kehoe’s rampage is unknown, but he may have been upset about losing a local election and his wife’s increasingly poor health.

May 18, 1980: Mount St. Helens in Skamania County, Washington State, erupts. An estimated 57 people die as a direct result of the volcano, and over one billion dollars’ worth of property is destroyed.

May 18, 1996: 29-year-old musician Kevin Gilbert is found dead of apparent autoerotic asphyxiation at his home in California.

May 18, 2017: Musician Chris Cornell, age 52, dies of suicide by hanging.

Now let's move onto something significantly more life-affirming: My all-time (2017-2026) most-played songs on Spotify, Part II.

"Love Is Blindness" by Jack White is the only cover of a U2 song that I actually like better than a U2 song.

"Gettin' It" features into the plot of the tv series Blindspotting, an amazing musical love story starring the uber-talented Jasmine Cephas Jones of Hamilton (the musical) fame. Her character's beloved is played by Rafael Casal and he is also great in this. He's basically playing the most ride-or-die husband in modern musical history.

Cillian Murphy has his own tag HERE.

"Ava Gardner" has its own post HERE.

I like the soundtrack to Disney's The Greatest Showman a normal amount. Don't worry about it. It's probably fine.

"Soul Kitchen" by the Doors is playing in the Umbrella Academy episode where Klaus meets Dave, the closest thing he has to a love of his life. It's beautiful and tragic and I was more than a little obsessed.

I should watch the Bruce Springsteen movie starring the gorgeous Jeremy Allen White of The Bear fame. (The Bear also had Jon Bernthal, who is about to return to playing The Punisher on Disney+. Right after the latest season of Daredevil: Born Again showed us Jessica Jones and Luke Cage as a couple, with their daughter, future Captain America Danielle Cage. I hyperventilated. JonesCage was all I ever wanted out of Marvel's The Defenders. Well, that and for [spoilers] Electra to still be alive, but we can't have everything, can we?)

(P.S. Jon Bernthal is also starring on Broadway in the theatre version of the classic Al Pacino movie Dog Day Afternoon. And while I have mixed feelings about Jews and Italians being used interchangeably in media - don't get me started again - that's pretty fuckin' awesome. I love that guy. I just love him, period.)

I'm done listening to Nicki Minaj now that she's joined Team Maga (a.k.a. the American fascists who want to reinstate white supremacy) and how we just all know instinctively that if she was in that juke joint in Ryan Coogler's Sinners, she would have let those vampires in and fixed them a Myx Moscato to boot.

Doechii is a better rapper, anyway.

I like Murray Head a normal amount. Don't worry about it.

"My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors" has its own page HERE.

"Buttons" is a very catchy pop song, and also I hear it in the voices of Bob Belcher and Jimmy Pesto (senior). And this makes me laugh.

"The Future" from Batman (1989) isn't actually my 121st most-listened song, it's in fact the first song I ever listened to on Spotify on March 31, 2017. I wonder what I was thinking that day. It's true that as a 12-year-old in 1989, I was hella excited about Batman, and I saw it in the theater twice, once regular movie theater and once drive-in. Maybe I was leaning into 1980s nostalgia, as I sometimes do, with or without Murry Head. Maybe I was fantasizing about Christian Bale's Batman, as I sometimes do, with or without Cillian Murphy.

Anyway, those are my songs. 

My Spotify Top 99 of 2023, Annotated, Part 2

Part 1 Here

12. "Everything's Alright" - original cast of Jesus Christ Superstar (featuring Murray Head singing the role of Judas)

13. "Black Parade" - Beyoncé

14. Born This Way - Lady Gaga

15. "Nobody Told Me" - John Lennon

16. "I Want a Little Sugar In My Bowl" - Nina Simone
As heard in Point of No Return (1993) starring Bridget Fonda and Gabriel Byrne

17. Too Much - Carly Rae Jepsen

18. "Red Right Hand" - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds (the Peaky Blinders theme song)

19. "America Has a Problem" - Beyoncé with Kendrick Lamar

20. Rehab - Amy Winehouse

21. "Sappho" - Frankie Cosmos

22. "Material Girl" - Kris Bowers. From the Bridgerton soundtrack; I've neither read nor watched the Netflix Regency romance series, but I like these pop songs done in a chamber music style. 

23. "Suerte" - Shakira

24. Annabel Lee/The Bells - Lou Reed

25. "Chromatica I" - Lady Gaga

26. Come on Eileen - Dexys Midnight Runners

27. "Gooey (Gilligan Moss remix)" - Glass Animals

28. Too Much (Acoustic) - Melanie Chisholm

29. "Chromatica II" - Lady Gaga

30. "Drunk (And I Don't Wanna Go Home)" - Elle King, Miranda Lambert

31. "Eames" - Polar Inc.

32. "Hung Up on Tokischa" - Madonna with Tokischa

33. You and I - Lady Gaga. The music video is a Frankenstein story. I had this idea the other day: Someone should write a novelization of the video. 

34. "You'll Be Back" - Hamilton soundtrack, Jonathan Groff

35. "Celebrity Skin" - Doja Cat. Did anybody else use to sing this on Rock Band?

36. "The Raven" - Lou Reed

37. "Tik Tok" - Kesha

38. Paper Planes - M.I.A.

39. "Cain't Use My Phone (Suite)" - Erykah Badu

40. "I'm On Fire" - Bruce Springsteen

41. "This Is Me" - Keala Settle from the Greatest Showman soundtrack

42. "Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye)" - Bananarama

43. "Inside Out" - Eve 6

44. "Heart of Gold" - Tanya Donelly

45. "Heart Shaped Box" - Nirvana

46. "Can't Help Falling In Love" - UB40

47. "Never Enough" - Loren Allred from the Greatest Show soundtrack

48. "911" - Lady Gaga

49. "Get Into It (Yuh)" - Doja Cat

50. "You Make Me Feel Like It's Halloween" - Muse

51. "UMF" - Duran Duran

52. "Hold My Hand" - Lady Gaga

53. Love On the Brain - Rihanna

54. "Come As You Are" - Nirvana

55. "Into the Mystic" - The Wallflowers (cover of a Van Morrison song)

56. "Drunk (And I Don't Wanna Go Home)" - Elle King, Miranda Lambert - GOLDHOUSE Remix

57. "Shallow" - Lady Gaga, Bradley Cooper

58. "Footloose" - Kenny Loggins. Remember, Tit Elingtin and I saw the musical live on stage in 2023.

59. Here With Me - Dido

60. "Creep" - Radiohead. The original; in the past I've been quite taken with the Scala & Kolacny Brothers cover that was used on The Simpsons (production code PABF04). Also used in Rock Band.

61. Paparazzi - Lady Gaga

62. "Mo Money, Mo Problems," The Notorious B.I.G., Mase, Diddy

63. "What's Up?" - 4 Non Blondes

64. "Our Love Is Done" - Hannah Juanita

65. "Do What You Want" - Lady Gaga, Christina Aguilera

66. "Glory of the 80s" - Tori Amos

67. "The River of Dreams" - Billy Joel

68. "No Myth" - Michael Penn

69. "How Will I Know?" - Whitney Houston - Tit and I also saw The Bodyguard, the musical, live on stage in 2023.

70. "Tonight I'll Be Staying Here" - Bob Dylan

71. "Sirius" - The Alan Parsons Project. Which I believe was some kind of hovercraft. (That's a Simpsons reference, but in real life, this is the song that traditionally introduces the starting lineup of the Chicago Bulls.) 

72. "Bitch I'm Madonna" - Madonna with Nicki Minaj

73. "Queen of the Night" - Whitney Houston

74. Trouble - P!nk

75. "Poor Me Israelites" - Desmond Dekker. I know this song from the soundtrack of Drugstore Cowboy.

76. "Unholy" - Sam Smith, Kim Petras

77. "Drugstore Rock N Roll" - Janis Martin

78. "Malibu" - Hole

79. "Ho-Down" - Paula Abdul

80. "Never Ever" - All Saints

81. "Crush With Eyeliner" - R.E.M.

82. "Can't Stop Lovin' You" - Van Halen

83. "Sleepwalker" - The Wallflowers

84. "20th Century Boy" - T. Rex

85. "Helena" - My Chemical Romance

86. "Party in the USA" - Miley Cyrus

87. "The Devil's Waltz" - The Wallflowers

88. "Rebel Rebel" - David Bowie

88. "Annabel Lee RIP" - MC Lars

90. I'm Blue (The Gong Gong Song) - The Ikettes

91. "Dive Bar In My Heart" - The Wallflowers

92. "Blister in the Sun" - Violent Femmes

93. "Country Pie" - Bob Dylan

94. "Rock Your Baby" - Wanda Jackson. Goddess bless Wanda Jackson. She is 86 years old and recently put out a cover of Juice Newton's "Queen of Hearts" with Leilah Safka. (Leilah's mother Melanie Safka, who performed under the mononym Melanie, had such hits as "Brand New Key.")

95. In the Air Tonight - Phil Collins

96. "Mysterious Ways" - U2

97. Invisible City - The Wallflowers

98. "Come on Eileen" - cover by Saving Ferris

99. "Toxic Pony" - Britney Spears/Ginuwine mashup

By Britney Spears - Barnes and Noble, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=75100779

My Top 100 Songs of 2024: 30-21

30. "What's the Frequency, Kenneth? Live at the Palace 1999" - R.E.M.

29. "20%" Hans Zimmer - instrumental, from the Rush soundtrack, went onto my Daniel Brühl playlist

28. "Come As You Are" Nirvana

27. "II Most Wanted" Beyoncé, Miley Cyrus - this was my favorite song on Cowboy Carter

26. "Red Wine Supernova" Chappell Roan

25. "One Night In Bangkok (US club remix)" - Murray Head

24. "Ralph Wiggum" - Bloodhound Gang

23. "Wicked Game (Live, Acoustic)" Stone Sour - Destiel playlist

22. "Fake ID" Riton, Kah-lo - I first heard this one when Tit Elingtin had Sirius XM satellite radio in his car and we listened to the Chill channel the first time we drove down to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, to visit my cousin's son. That was Memorial Day Weekend this year.

Riton is a dj from the UK; Kah-lo is the Nigerian-born American singer

21. "Runaway Crush" Stella Soleil

https://thatwritererinoriordan.tumblr.com/post/697009137517723648/got-a-new-ls-450-aint-no-keys-in-this-doohickey

Three More Vignettes

Read the first four vignettes here. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

    Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

    Like fairy-gifts fading away,—

Thou wouldst still be ador'd as this moment thou art,

    Let thy loveliness fade as it will;

And, around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

    Would entwine itself verdantly still!

- John Andrew Stevenson and Thomas Moore, A Selection of Irish Melodies, 1808

I.

"But I'm not a psychoanalyst," Dr. Oliver Sacks objects. "I'm a neurologist."

Reclining on the leather couch that Tit Elingtin and I found, for free, given away at a storage facility, I add, "And a ghost."

"I'm not a ghost," he insists. "And this isn't a dream. I'm a figment of your imagination. I'm you talking to yourself again."

"Can you explain all the kissing, though?" I ask him.

"I certainly can," he says in his polished English accent. Dr. Sacks is gay, and my interest in him is in his fascinating work as an articulate neurologist specializing in stories of quirky outliers, but god, I love a crisp English accent. My mind flashes on Murray Head (the Somerset Maugham suite. Oh god, the Somerset Maugham Suite!). Then Ralph Fiennes. 

Adapted from the short story by Roald Dahl. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt28912858/

A rat creeps out from under Dr. Sacks's arm chair. The cats, Seven and Jerry, race after it, following it down the hallway into my office.

"Clue me in, Doc."

"You spend too much time on Tumblr. You've forgotten how to write a plot that doesn't descend into slashy self-insert fan fiction."

I sit up, one ear listening to the crashes and bangs coming from my office. I hope the cats haven't broken my Shakespeare candle.

"Harsh," I say.

"One day you'll get back in the habit of practicing your craft," Dr. Sacks says consolingly. "Other than in these short, self-referential pieces."

I nod. "Tell me what you meant when you said Charles Dickens had a haunted mind. Were you referring to that last year of his life, after the railway accident?"

He tells me everything, the footnote of the explanation, the digression that his editor made him remove from the book Hallucinations. I smile. At last I know. 

Jerry trots back into the room and drops the dead rat at my feet.

II.

Author's note: Vignette II is vintage! This is from a just-for-me fic I wrote in 1998. I cleaned it up, tore out an unfun subplot, and added a cameo by The Pale Blue Eye!Edgar Allan Poe and Augustus Landor. 

Finally they arrived at Jack Rabbit Slim’s. They were seated in a car–fortunately, they got a Stingray. Their server looked just like James Dean.

“Last time I was here, Buddy Holly was my server,” Uma told him.

“Who’s Buddy Holly?” he responded. 

“I guess he was after your time,” she said.

Erin noticed that despite the nostalgic ‘50s decor, the music being played over the speakers was from the ‘90s. She heard the Spice Girls’ “Too Much.”

Tim ordered a vanilla Coke, but Erin and Uma had the famous five-dollar milkshakes. “The more pregnant you are, the more people try to get you to drink milkshakes,” said Uma. Uma was pregnant with her first child and she was in love. 

They ordered burgers and sat talking about the party and about tv until the food came. They’d just started eating when the start of the nightly twist contest was announced. Uma set her burger down and volunteered herself as a contestant. Tim got up to dance with her. They danced to “Are You Jimmy Ray?”

As they danced, the server came and sat across the table from Erin. “You really look like him,” she said. 

“I do?”

“Yeah, no foolin.’ I know it’s your job to look like him, but wow! You even have the same nice ass.” He gave her a little smile and seemed to blush slightly. She stared for what seemed like a long time, then said, “Oh my god.”

“I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said, wagging a finger playfully. “And you’re right.”

“You are him, for real.”

“For real, no foolin.’ Do you believe me?”

“I’ve talked to dead people before; it’s not so unusual. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see her.”

“Uma Thurman.” 

He nodded. “She’s the best actress I’ve seen since Natalie Wood. She’s not much of a dancer, though.”

“Give her a break; she’s pregnant.”

“But still hot.”

“That she is. What do you think of the boy?”

“He’s pretty hot, too.”

“I thought you’d like him. He’s a cop, but a nice one. He has to be a nice one to go out with me.” 

He raised his eyebrows. Erin asked, “What, do you think I’m a bad girl?”

“Obviously,” he said, “but in the best possible sense. Sometimes no good can come from being good. Besides, you seem like an honest girl to me. I like people who are honest. That’s how I can tell you’re a Midwest girl.”

“I’m from Indiana,” she volunteered. 

“Well there then now, that’s something else we have in common. I have to go wait on a Chrysler now, but when I come back I’ll bring you an ice cream. I hope you don’t mind sharing.”

She imagined sharing an ice cream with James Dean and felt the heat rising in her face. The tips of her ears felt suddenly hot. 

Uma and Tim sat back down in the booth. “We’ve got the contest in the bag,” said Tim. “Did you see us up there?”

“No,” Erin admitted. “I was busy talking to James Dean.”

They returned to their burgers. Erin wasn’t more than halfway through hers when she noticed another familiar face sitting in the Chrysler booth across from them. He wasn’t one of the servers, yet the man seemed to be in costume. He looked exactly like the famous photograph of Edgar Allan Poe, although rather than a stiff and ill-fitting black suit suitable for a funeral, he wore a finely-tailored brown suit that nicely complemented his gently-curling dark hair. Across from the spitting image of a young Poe sat an older man, perhaps in his late forties, with graying dark hair and a solid build. If Erin’s eyes didn’t deceive her, Poe and the handsome older man appeared to be sharing a chocolate malt with two straws. They seemed to be on a date; she caught them furtively exchanging smiles.

Jimmy came around with the ice cream. He’d had the class to bring one for Tim and, as Uma predicted, an extra-large ice cream for Uma with extra whipped cream on top. People were always trying to get pregnant people to eat more ice cream, even James Dean, who famously thought children should be drowned like puppies. After delivering the chilly treat, Jimmy sat beside Erin. He leaned across the table and said in a stage whisper, “If you really want to see something, meet me on top of that bluff outside the city at seven tomorrow.”

“What happens then?”

“A chickie run. Have you ever been to one before?”

“Sure,” Erin said. “That’s all I ever do.” He took the spoon from her (he’d only brought one spoon for their shared ice cream), ate a large spoonful of ice cream, and left. Erin turned to Uma. “What’s a chickie run?”

The emcee took the floor again and announced that the winners of the twist contest had been decided. He called Uma and Tim back up to the dance floor and gave them the trophy. Everyone felt pretty good.

***

At seven o’clock the following evening, James, Uma, and Tim waited impatiently for Erin to arrive at the bluff outside the city. Finally she came along driving her mom’s 1995 Chevy Cavalier. 

“What am I doing?” she asked, getting out of her car and walking over to the others.

“You and I are driving toward the edge, and the first one to jump out of the car is a chicken,” James Dean explained. 

“And this is supposed to be a good idea?!”

“Just don’t forget to jump out.” He got into his car, a silver Porsche Spyder. Then Tim went over to the Spyder and rubbed some dirt on James’s hands.

“Tim, I would also like some dirt, please,” said Erin. Tim did the same for her. Uma stood safely off to one side as Tim prepared to give the signal for the run to begin. James and Erin turned on their headlights and waited. Then the signal came.

I’m not going to keep you in suspense over this: James jumped out first, followed seconds later by Erin. Their cars were gone, and although the were dusty, Erin and James were unharmed.

When she hit the ground, Erin was a little stunned. She shook it off, sat up and said, “Where’s James?”

“I’m right here behind you,” he said. 

Tim began to cry. “Why are you crying? Erin asked him. “We both jumped. We’re fine.”

“But the cars!” Tim said.

“The Porsche, he means,” said Uma. “No one would cry over a green 1995 Chevy Cavalier.” Tim nodded in agreement. 

James said, “Now let’s go hang out in that old abandoned mansion.” Erin went to hang out with her new friends at that old abandoned mansion. 

III. 

The light in the room seems wrong somehow. Too warm, too golden, even for this Southern California day. I feel like I'm in an Instagram filter designed to make me look vintage. I sense I'm being viewed by the male gaze and that the male gaze is squinting into a pair of tinted designer sunglasses.

I'm in another Tarantino movie, I think. How very Gen X of me. The word "recursion" pops into my head. I hear it in Dan Stevens's accent. Back into the past again. Boats against the current, beating back ceaselessly and all of that.

"Could I refresh your drink, dear?" asks my gracious and beautiful host, Niele Adams.

"Please," I say, sipping the last lime-infused dregs from my iced martini glass. She takes the glass and I turn to talk to the women beside me in the sitting room, all so impossibly beautiful and interesting. To my tremendous relief, each of them is clad in footwear which entirely covers the sides, backs, and toes of her feet. I shan't be forced to stare at any women's soles today.

Niele returns with my refreshed drink. I take a sip and it slakes thirsts I didn't even know I had in me, cool and heavenly, tasting of ascent and aspiration. I think of the 1890s Parisian tourist clubs Jess Cale describes on her history podcast: L'Enfer and Le Ciel, Hell and Heaven. This must be what it tasted like to drink in Le Ciel. 

Nature calls and I excuse myself to use the guest bath. As I am on my second gin gimlet and a bit tipsy, it seems to me a bit of a trek. Nielle sends me through a den and down a hall. I know the ladies' is on my right, but which door? I turn a doorknob and hope for the best.

I slam the door shut, immediately aware that I've chosen unwisely. I've walked in on the man of the house and he's in the tub. 

I shut my eyes. I face the door. Oh shit, I'm still inside the bathroom. Behind my back, Steve McQueen clears his throat. 

"I'm so sorry," I say, almost spilling my drink as I fumble for the doorknob. Is it hot in here? Of course it's hot in here; this bathroom is filled with steam. The King of Cool likes his bathwater hot.

"See anything you like?" he asks, laughing. Hey, we have the same accent! We're from Indiana. His is less Kentuckiana than James Dean's.

"I didn't see anything," I say. I'm not entirely lying. All I saw was his stylishly-cut, wet dirty-blond hair. 

I hear the water splash as he gets up.

"I'm your wife's guest," I say. "I'm just looking for the guest bathroom."

"You found it," he says, laughing as I feel like dying from embarrassment. "You can turn around now."

I assume this means he's put on a towel. I assume wrong. Now we're standing face to face and he's soaking wet and naked. He takes my drink from my hand, takes a long sip, and asks, "Is it hot in here?"

I nod. I repeat, "I'm your wife's guest." I barely get the words out of my mouth before he's kissing me, hard. He tastes like gin, lime, and tobacco and I have to be forgiven for the moan that escapes my throat.

"My wife's guest is my guest," he breathes into my ear. "How about I show you a little hospitality?"

L'Enfer. This is L'Enfer and I am burning alive. The fabric of my designer dress is soaked now and I don't care.

His feet are bare, but I'm not complaining about that either.