Witch, kamiste, Deviantart
Hey, Best Witches, ghouls and ‘goyles! Hope your weekend was as spooktacular as mine!
It must be the Season of the Witch. Must be.
The Eagles. Uh, yeah… Eagles… man… also accompanied by a rather nice bit of witchy goth. Who knew?
Raven hair. Ruby lips. Sparks fly from her fingertips… Ooh. Witchy. Way.
The incomparable Sarah Vaughan with That Old Black Magic that she weaves so well…
❤❤❤❤❤ the Wolfman Jack. That’s the fact. ❤ the Jack. They don’t make ’em like that anymore, ghouls and ‘goyles. Allan Freed, Dick Clark, neither. Nor fictional jocks Doctor Johnny Fever and Venus, baby, Flytrap. I ❤ these cats and old school radio like nobody’s business. They have been a HUGE and obvious influence on my life and this blog.
Spent the bulk of my youth watching The Wolfman host The Midnight Special. All THE best acts performed. For nine years beginning in 1972 everyone who was anyone from Carol Burnett to T-Rex was there. No kidding. Just plain everyone. AC/DC. Aerosmith. Earl Scruggs. George Carlin. The Cars! Uh, yeah. Blondie. Steve Martin. Cheap Trick. Heart! Uh, crazy, baby! Just crazy. Jimmie Walker. Ike and Tina. Everyone. Just everyone.
When The Wolfman played your record or had you appear on The ‘Special you had made it. If you hadn’t already arrived, you were presently. He had that much sway. Uh, yeah. He was almost singlehandedly responsible for the soundtracks of our youth. Radio and record industries were entirely different creatures than they are today. Almost everyone on the continent was listening to the same tunes, part of a musical collective consciousness and from coast to coast groovy cats like the Jack, Freed and Dick were in drivers seat.
The world wouldn’t be what it is today without the likes our beloved Wolfman. It just wouldn’t.
Hats off, dude. Hats off… and thanks a bunch.
Hey? Knock, knock.
Natch, baby. Natch. Ha-ha ha. Clap for The Wolfman.
Get the popcorn, ghouls and ‘goyles, it’s Time for 1941’s The Wolf Man!
The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.
~ William Butler Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole
There’s a big Halloween concert/party in Metropolis the night before Jimmy and Dutchess’…
“Hey, Dizz. You get a ticket?”
“Awesome! You’re coming!”
“So, yeah? The WHOLE weekend before. Should be fun. Sure hope I’m up for it.”
“What’s before Halloween?”
“The, ummmmm, weekend? Of the parties?”
“O-o-o-o-oh… Of course.”
*burst of laughter*
And so it goes… We laugh SO hard. She laughs SO hard at herself. I at me. Us at each other. Dutchess is the same way. Can’t take yourself too ‘Sirius-ly’, hey?
I know Freckles is a wee bit obtuse at Times — I am, too — but we’ve really got it goin’ on on a whole other level, baby! Honest we do. I find great humour in it. I do. 😉 lol
“Jimmy and Dutchess wanted me to remind you and Frenchy that you’re invited to their Halloween party. They started decorating a week and a half ago. They won’t let anyone into the basement. “Decorating”. Uh, yeah. Right. I think they’ve got a Meth lab goin’ on down there, Freckles! Ha ha ha… But, anyway… you’re invited!”
“When is it?”