Raspberries
Overnight Sensation

Written by Eric Carmen

Well I know it sounds funny
But I'm not in it for the money, no
I don't need reputation
And I'm not in it for the show

I just want a hit record
Want to hear it on the radio
Want a big hit record
One that everybody's got to know

Well the program director don't pull it
Then it's bound to get back the bullet
So bring the group down to the station
You're gonna be an overnight sensation

I've been tryin' to write the lyric
Not offensive but satiric, too
If you can get it in the "A" slot
It's just gotta make a mint for you

And I want a hit record
Want to hear it on the radio
Want a big hit record
One that everybody's got to own

Overnight sensation

I fit the words
To a good melody
Amazing how success
Has been ignoring me so long

I've used my bread
Making demos all day
And writing in the night
While in my head I hear
The record play
Hear it play

Hit record, yeah
Want a hit record, yeah
Want a hit record, yeah
(Number one)
Want a hit record, yeah
(Number one)

It's a banner day for Dave Miller, as I scooped Maxim by eleven months. Behold, the girls of Israeli Defense Force.

Here's a representative sample:



I'm not too wild about it, actually. I think my original post did a much better job with the same material. I've got a lot more pictures than they do, for one thing. And also, the Maxim spread is noticeably lacking chicks with guns.

To wit...





Hawt.

FEAR AND LOATHING ON MY LUNCH BREAK

Today for lunch I drove aimlessly around Seattle, stopped for gas, and then decided to grab a burger and run home. While waiting for my order at Kid Valley, a local burger chain, I was joined on my bench by an alterna-chick who introduced herself as Laura. She just started chatting. Seems she was from Connecticut orignally, and moved to Seattle for the overcast skies. Thus, she hated the scorching 63 degree day we're enjoying. She asked what I did for a living, and so I told her: I work at a place called Artist Trust, which gives grants to artists. As it turns out, she's an oil painter. Well, she used to be an oil painter. Now she's in a band. Do we give money to bands?

We sure do, I said.

She pulled off her sunglasses. Her eyeliner was heavy and smudged. She had a mark over her left eye that looked like a bruise or a dried scab. As I looked her over, I noticed a lot of bruises and dried blood.

God, I have to tell my friend about this. We're staying at the Wallingford Inn [a hotel about five blocks away that hosts an average of one double homicide a month].

Do you think you could give me a ride up the hill, she asked. It's so hot.

Sure, I said good-naturedly, fantasizing about an alterna-chick threeway.

That's so nice, she said. My fish and chips should be right up.

The cashier called the next order. Angie!

I thought, wouldn't it be funny if that was her.

Laura ran up to grab her order. Okaaay...

On the way out to the car, she said, my boyfriend is a bass player. You've probably heard of him. I didn't ask his name.

She talked the whole way, as I tried to figured out how to get to the hotel, which was situated practically on an exit from Interstate 99, thus very hard to approach from the the wrong direction. She asked no questions, even as I drove aimlessly toward what could well have been a dump for all she knew.

Finally, we found our way there. You should just park in front of my room, she said.

There was a fire truck in front, so I parked around the back.

Do you smoke crack, Laura asked me.

No, I said, and I was suddenly very proud of myself.

Are you a cop, she asked.

No, I said, starting to feel a little ashamed.

You don't look like a cop. You don't act like a cop. Are you cop?

I should have asked you that first, I guess.

It's not going to get you into trouble to talk about crack to a cop.

Are you a cop?

No, I said. Just a writer.

I helped her carry her groceries to her room. An ambulance joined the fire truck in front. She pounded on the door of room 28. No answer. She pounded again.

Ray! she pleaded.

Oh fuck, I thought. She's going to ask if she can come to my place.

Thank god, the door opened. I didn't see the guy -- I was looking at the squalor, so I only caught a glance at a tatooed upper arm as the guy disappeared, down the foyer and into the bathroom. Was he wearing a towel?

I brought my friend Dave, she said. He's going to give us a trust fund.

Don't let him in! Ray yelled.

I looked around. Pipes and garbage were everywhere. My place is a mess, too. But there's a difference in spirit.

I should probably get out of here, I said, thinking I was very likely to get mugged for the $60 in my wallet. Do you want to write down my work's web site address?

Ray, do you have a pen, she called?

Don't come in here! Ray responded.

I have a pen, I said. She took down my work's web site, phone number, and my name: Miguel. Then I left.

I should have gotten a photo. Next time I hang out with a crack girl, for sure.

Over at The Plank, Jason Zengerle has some idiosyncratic expectations of our next president:

Indeed, even in his acting career, [Fred] Thompson gives the impression that he's content to mail it in. Check out his body of work over at IMDB. He's always playing supporting roles or is part of an ensemble. Has the guy ever carried a film, much less a TV show (or, for that matter, embarked on an Apocalpyse Now-type project that drove him insane and left him almost dead)?
Werner Herzog for President.

"I say build it, go there, and wait."


Al Qaeda Also Fed Up With Ground Zero Construction Delays

Every thing is changing.

Every thing is changing.

Iggy.