The Suburb E.P.
Recorded in the Designated Smoking Area at 12 Demers throughout 2003. The songs were born in the midst of a crash course in home ownership, and assembled on the back porch or during the idiot-ridden commute.
- Home Remedy
- Press 1
- DKNY Bag
- Idiot Bliss
- About You
- Blind Faith Trips
It's a long walk home, and your feet and your head are already sore. And the telephone is ringing back home by your bed. So you figure you'll make the most of each painfull step. It's allright, you've got your own remedies, ashtrays full of burned out memories, And things you wish you'd said turning cartwheels round your head. And it's all night cause it's all that you know, Always to drunk to drive, Too dumb to let go of the voices in your head as they lay you down to rest. on the floor by your word, with a coat for a quilt. in the ashes you dropped and the liquor you spilt. and the voices in your head choose to ignore you. It sounds insane but it feels so right. Your incremental suicide is all that keeps you alive.
She said, "I'm still not sure exactly why I'm calling. I know you never answer the telephone. And I guess by now all my plants are dying. Your thumbs were never green, just stained with nicotine. And your hands were always cold. And I don't know why I feel like I should explain myself. Each bruise is worth at least a thousand words. But the worst part of it all is that I couldn't help but call to say tonight I won't be coming home. Tomorrow night I won't be coming home. One of the nurses on my floor said she could help me. said her sister runs this place somewhere upstate. She said if I go back to you next time you'll kill me- It's a home for battered wives. Is that what I've become? How could you do that to someone you said you loved? How can you do this, to someone you say you love? But I remember how it was before it started. You used to sing, You Are My Sunshine, to me. Then the whiskey got you mean, and you forgot how to sing. I can't remember when you started swinging. It was only every once in a while you'd start to swing. If you'd just give up the booze, and pick up the telephone, tomorrow I'd be coming home to you. Just pick up the telephone and tomorrow I'll be home, Tomorrow I'll be home with you.
She packs up her troubles in her dkny bag, and smiles, smiles, smiles. She's got zanex for anxiety, And Prozac to kill the poetry. A little adavan to wash away The dreams the zoloft can't erase. And perkacets when all the others fail. She packs up her troubles in her dkny bag, and smiles, smiles, smiles. She talks about her drug abuse, Her battles with the booze. But now she's thirteen years Clean and Sober. She packs up her troubles in her dkny bag, and smiles, smiles, smiles. While the old men at the bar watch terrified.
I tripped over a line you drew in the sand. With so many lines, there's nowhere to stand. It's a minefield of consequences, a battle of wills, and I'm defenseless. You can only say sorry so many times before you start to choke on your swallowed pride. My apologies are just your means of keeping score. I'm not sorry any more, I'm all done. I guess you've won.
In the pallet bonfire light you drink warm beer and watch them fight, The meatheads and the stoned, the jocks and the drones, the bullies and the bruised, the useless and the used. And all the pretty girls are stuck with simple thoughts. And all the simple boys are hung with mammoth cocks. And all the small-pricked, thoughtful clowns like you, are bound to fall in love with booze, because you fell in love then lost her to a blissfull idiot. You're drowning in the deep end of the gene pool. With all the poets and the altruistic artist fools. The lifeguard can't swim, he just sits there and grins in idiot bliss. In the bar's forgiving light, you drink cheap gin and watch them fight. The yuppies and the tools, the knaves and the fools, white collars and blues, the useless and the used. And all the pretty girls are stuck with simple lives. And all the simple boys are fucking each others wives And all the drunken, thoughtful clowns like you, Are divorced but still in love with booze, because you fell in love then turned into a blissful idiot.
Poorly staged breakdowns and passive attacks. You count all your friends on the knives in your back you give them a twist, rub salt in your wounds, It's all about you. The chip on your shoulder is painstakingly carved, and proudly displayed like a toddlers first scar. It's your red badge of outrage, Your cracker-jack tattoo, Its all about you. When they're tired of asking what's the matter. What comes after? What'll you do with your days. When that last damp shoulder shrugs you off. When there's no one to hear you complain. What'll you do with your days?
It's funny how it falls away, the colors start to bleed, the pattern starts to fade. Until you wonder if you've ever been sure. You can't remember what it meant, or who you did it for. And the shadows grow longer by the hour, The blind faith trips, and the sweet taste sours.
You'd cut the clothesline down if you could, Let you're clean laundry roll round the neighborhood. Then you'd write clever songs, about the dead spots on lawns, and the havoc your wardrobe had wrought. But most of your neighbors have guns. They drink more than they think, and they don't drink enough. So you smoke cigarettes, sit and stare at the fence, and pretend that you don't want to run. And the calluses soften with age. The sweet gentle scars from your third hand guitars, are lost like the music you made, the dive-bar stool muse, and the youth you were bound to mislay.