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Where are the cars going tonight, shot through the chute with no visible ending? And who is behind their wheels, and what’s on their minds? Where are the cars going tonight? Did they remember to say goodbye? Or did something just tell them to drive?
I’m sorry, but the stars don’t seem to be showing tonight, engulfed by the glow of the horizon’s bending. Or maybe a man did steal them from straight out of the sky, and laid them in the lap of his baby on the passenger side.
Roll down the windows, open the roof. Dial the seat back and own the moon. The traffic thins out, the air grows cool. The city lights behind us, it’s too dark to see if you’re still with me.
I thought I glimpsed something dancing in my brights. You said you saw it, too, but you might have been pretending. And who knows what it was, but now it’s gone from sight. Where are the cars going tonight? Did they remember to say goodbye? Or did something just tell them to drive?
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Someday someone will make you make up your mind, whether or not you like the direction they’re going. I never signed a dotted line, I have nothing to be broken. I can walk out at any time. Now I just want to see what you want me to be before I turn around and show you one last side of me. Reverse it, reverse it. Turn around and start it again.
You probably wouldn’t be in such a bind if I didn’t just shut up and listen. Someday you might not see it as a crime that I held you to a standard that was different. But now I need to let you live your life. You can’t give me a present I don’t already have, and in the future you can kiss my past. Reverse it, reverse it. Turn around and start it again.
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In another town many miles away, she had found a house where all that remained was a single beam holding up the roof and silent ghosts of smoke and soot. In another town long before she came my way.
And she rebuilt painstakingly, restored that old house’s dignity. But now one thing she doesn’t need is another fixer-upper in need of TLC. She put up those walls, but how long can she put up with me?
I’m experiencing technical difficulties, please stand by, please stand by. I’ve got a plan to be a man but have got to shed this shell of a guy. Please stand by as I try.
For a limited time I can make her this offer: Just give me two fives for my thoughtless little pockets, then sit back tonight and watch the process, little by little, at first barely visible till the morning arrives, the sun pushing through the blinds, and you look into the eyes of your most loyal accomplice.
I’m experiencing technical difficulties, please stand by, please stand by. I’ve got a plan to be a man but have got to shed this shell of a guy. Please stand by as I try.
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I know, I know, I should have thought it through a little more before I let it affect you. And I know my show isn’t getting rave reviews, the Daily News said it was pompous and confused. The problem’s not that hard to solve, it’s just a matter of the standard Who knows what and who knows who. But I was planning far too long for things to happen in a fashion they were not intended to.
I know, I know, I dug myself a hole that wasn’t going to be one I could control, and I know your role is complicated by the grave manipulations of a reckless-hearted soul. You’re not the type to get slights, you’re not the type who should be fighting for a consolation prize. You have every right to decline, to stand aside, to take a bye and get on with your life.
I know you don’t have a lot of dough to blow on stupid stuff that will only turn to dust. And I won’t know the death blow, I’ll just feel my head a-spin as you deliver what must be the final thrust. From the curb it’s hard not to feel somewhat unnerved that I just got everything that I deserve, and as I gaze up at your frozen face, you close your eyes and walk away without a word.
I know, I know.
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Tim McCarver must die, Tim McCarver must die, Tim McCarver must die, Tim McCarver must die.
He insults my intelligence, he takes the game and shits on it. This stupid dick opens his mouth and I have to watch without the sound.
Tim McCarver must die, Tim McCarver must die, Tim McCarver must die, Tim McCarver must die.
I promise to be your best friend if you poison his Just for Men. Drop his mic into the bath while he’s soaking his postgame ass. McCarver McCarver McCarver McCarver McCarver must die!
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If it had a door I’d kick it down, if it had four wheels I’d peel it out. I used to slide the tides and ride the yellow lights of that town, all the while trying to find the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll station. Now I’m a lot older and it’s the last week of October. Five thirty-nine cuts through the Pines, the sand encroaching on the shoulder, bottle of Cream Ridge wine divining my destination. I’m gonna take that midnight ride down to Beach Haven. I’m gonna take that midnight ride down to Beach Haven.
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There was a man, name of Dexter, whose desk was by the copier. Not a thing would have suggested he’d go to lunch and not return. He had a girl, one time I met her. She seemed happy, she seemed fine. But maybe I misassessed her; I’m sometimes blind at Christmastime. Now I don’t want to give off the wrong impression: I’m not suggested they went on some demented, cold-blood killing spree. For every single devil of a Starkweather, there’s a billion men like Dexter and me, staring through the wipers at blue cars, blue sky, blue clouds, blue drive, blue turnpike, blue time, blows by.
Late one night I told the watchman there was a file I forgot. He buzzed me in, turned to his crossword, and gave me not another thought. I rode up to the silent office and sat myself at Dexter’s desk. I thought I’d open it like a coffin and understand why Dexter left. But I found I’d have no such revelation: just a single box of little paper clips. But when I pulled one out I found that he had formed a chain with them. It was a beautiful site, shining like silver in the flourescent light, like jewels for his girl in blue cars, blue sky, blue clouds, blue drive, blue turnpike, blue time, blows by.
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What woke you from your sweet slumber, tied impossible knots in your sheets, fills your head with the voice of one lover while another one waits in your dreams? Go to sleep, sweet baby. Go to sleep, and you will see.
Write down what images linger before they drift back to where they were made and the pen slips out of your fingers and you dream just for morning to break. Go to sleep, sweet baby. Go to sleep, and you will see.
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There are those, I know, with more smarts than me, though I have seen a lot. And I may not read but I believe true love exists beyond the fabulists. I can fly underwater and I can swim the skies. Not for a moment shall I falter. I will return; this I swear to her
And I will wander on the seas over the blurring of the seasons. Through the stormy froth I’ll find the rock where I entered into this world. Let them coordinate the fleets, let them coronate the eagles. There is no force on earth could me deter from where I last saw my girl.
I’ve heard it said so many times that we all look the same, but where others just see black and white, I see colors so bright, like the island’s in flames. Sometimes I get so nervous when I don’t know who to trust. I’ll lay back on the surface, then in a burst of foam, dart straight for my home.
And I will wander on the seas over the blurring of the seasons. Through the stormy froth I’ll find the rock where I entered into this world. Let them coordinate the fleets, let them coronate the eagles. There is no force on earth could me deter from where I last saw my girl.
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I don’t wanna stay here, I don’t wanna stay here, I don’t wanna stay here with me.
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Far away the sirens are racing to the fire; far away somebody’s home is burning. A family standing at the curb in jammies awaiting the word, on the corner traffic signals dumbly turning. Green turns to yellow and yellow to red. It’s gonna turn green again.
Somewhere else a man walks homeward halfway through November, wood smoke blowing sweetly on the breeze. Five o’clock is darker than he ever could remember, and winter doesn’t start for three more weeks. Green turns to yellow and yellow to red. It’s gonna turn green again.
Ooh, her silence is telling me what I already told her. Ooh, and the future’s killing me. I can feel the cold on the shoulder.
Farther off there is the soft dawn of another morning on the other side of the night. Banging pots and lingering thoughts from dreams that still are forming and that will keep taking shape for life. Green turns to yellow and yellow to red. It’s gonna turn green again.
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I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love with you again this week.
Saw through something before it could begin. I’m so smart I think I deserve a medal. Pin it directly to my skin. Push it deep so I’ll always remember. I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love with you again this week.
A wire taut enough to walk. I know you think I’m just wanting some tension. But I can’t get my eyes off the clock. All I really want’s an extension. I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love with you again this week.
My heart pounds in my head first thing Sunday morning. I think I’ll never get out of my bed. I think I’ll be forever adoring. I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love, I will never fall in love with you again this week.
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Of the 52 songs that the 2005 Song of the Week project yielded, 15 of them made the critically acclaimed compilation album This Week. What about the other 37? Here's the best of those, an assortment of originals and covers. Highlights include the title track (written for an imaginary John Hughes picture), the original, slower version of "This Week," a nice rendition of the Fleetwoods' "Mr. Blue," and, of course, the lyrical tour de force of "Tim McCarver Must Die," one of the most downloaded Thunderegg songs of all time.
released January 15, 2008
Played and recorded to a Tascam 424 four-track cassette recorder by Will Georgantas at Manhattan Bridge Four-Track Operation, 851 Carroll Street, Brooklyn, NY, between January 1 and December 31, 2005. Songs by Will Georgantas (Zivlizdin Songs/BMI) except for "Mr. Blue" (DeWayne Blackwell), "More Pretty Girls Than One" (traditional), "Deo Gratias" (William Byrd), "Independence Day" (Vic Chesnutt), "Messenger" (Greg Sage), and "Flexible Flyer" (Grant Hart). Mastered by Carl Saff at Saff Mastering, Chicago, IL. Cover art by Krinkles.
