When you start dreaming about Morrissey, you know things have gone too far. This morning when I woke up at 5:43 am because someone was making a racket, I realized that in my dream, not only was Morrissey there for no reason that conformed even to dream logic, he was young and handsome. My friends, while the Moz was undeniably once young, I don’t think he ever laid claim to the Johnny Depp brand of sultry beauty; which is to say that it was something to amuse me over my breakfast cereal after a night of waking up time and time again expecting the Spouse to be there (which he wasn’t). It also reminded me of what is, with Cemetry Gates, my favourite Smiths song – Stop Me (If You Think That You’ve Heard This One Before). Why is it that that brand of upbeat angry song cheers me so? Kate Nash’s Foundations, Lush’s Ladykillers, and then Stop Me. You’d think I have a grudge – but I have no “hell hath no fury” tales.
There is much intelligence around here. Much CIA, FBI, NSA, Ivy League, scientific, articulate, intense and intimidating intelligence. Astronomers, physicists, neurologists and artists, too. There is Jon Stewart, and Stephen Colbert getting ordered by the President to shave his head, and it is lovely, truly wonderful, all of it (except maybe the NSA. They scare me, with their eagles wrapped in flags). All the same, The Smiths make me homesick for a kind of intelligent humour (wry, blasé, well-read in different books) that just doesn’t grow here, much like the giant trees of the pacific northwest, which I also miss (thank you, John Valliant).