Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Edison Lighthouse -- "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)" (1970)

She's really got a magical spell
And it's working so well
That I can't get away

If you read the previous 2 or 3 lines, you already know Tony Burrows was an English pop singer who had four almost simultaneous top 40 hits under four different band names in 1970 -- "Gimme Dat Ding" (the Pipkins), "My Baby Loves Lovin'" (White Plains), "United We Stand" (Brotherhood of Man), and our featured song, "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes" (Edison Lighthouse).  

And you already know that I recently visited New York City, where I stayed at the Edison Hotel.

And you also already know that Edison Lighthouse was not named for "The Wizard of Menlo Park," Thomas Edison, but for the Eddystone Lighthouse, which stands on the Eddystone Rocks several miles south of Cornwall, the southwestern-most English county.

"Pray tell," you might be saying to yourself, "Is there going to be anything in this post that we don't already know?  Or is this going to be just another phone-it-in 2 or 3 lines full of recycled blabbing, with no original content of any value?"

Hey -- watch it, Mr. Smart Mouth.  I will slap that silly grin off your face, bub!  And here's another clue for all y'all: the 100% original 2 or 3 lines posts rarely have any content of value either, so you're not missing that much when I just cut and paste.  

To paraphrase the Who:

Meet the new 2 or 3 lines!
Same as the old 2 or 3 lines!

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but 2 or 3 lines is not my whole life -- not by a long shot, no siree bob!  I have a lot a balls in the air, and I'm trying to keep them there (rather than letting them drop to the ground and roll away down the street, willy-nilly)!

And I'm not talking about my thriving legal career, and the critically-praised novel I'm currently reading, and other crap like that. 

I'm talking about my busy and glamorous social life -- not to mention my even busier and more glamorous fantasy social life. 

Recently I have had a lot going on -- and when I'm not out and about, hitting the hotspots in this toddling' town we like to call "Your Nation's Capital," I'm planning for my next night out, or talking about my latest exploits with my fellow  exploitees.

You know the old saying, "It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it!"?  What I'm talking about is not a dirty job . . . and I don't really have to do it.  But I think you catch my drift . . . and I've always liked that old saying.  Plus it gets me a few lines closer to the end of this very low-calorie post.

I have had some serious demands on my time recently, which has significantly reduced my ability to crank out new 2 or 3 lines posts.  Consequently, like a British old maid who has been dipping into the principal of her late bachelor uncle's bequest rather than living on the interest, I'm coming very close to running on empty when it comes to the number of ready-for-publication posts in the 2 or 3 lines content vault.

I need to gin up some new posts to deposit in my checking account, ready for immediate withdrawal when they are needed.  (I also need to clean all these unused photos off my Blackberry -- which, by the way, is the Official Cellphone Camera of 2 or 3 Lines™.)

In case you haven't noticed, I do three posts a week, 52 weeks a year.  They don't write themselves, and I don't see you doing diddly-squat to help.  If you're not going to pick up a laboring oar and commence to row, row, row the 2 or 3 lines boat, I really need you to lead, follow, or get out of the way.

And while you're at it, would you please get the eff out of the kitchen so the rest of us can get on with the cooking?  (Please?  Pretty please?  Pretty please with sugar on it?)

Now that I think of it, I do three posts a week 48 weeks a year.  In February, I do a post every day, an act of hubris that would make the ancient Greeks tremble in fear of the wrath of Zeus reigning down upon their heads.  (The wrath of Khan as well.) 

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Big Shot!  (Who do you think you are?)

In closing, watch this space for more news about the non-2 or 3 lines-related goings on in my wild and crazy life.  Which is not to say that there will be any such news.  Maybe yes, maybe no . . . maybe rain, maybe snow.  And don't call us, we'll call you.

(To tell the truth, we won't call you.  We don't even have your number, so how the hell can we call you even if we wanted to?  AND WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU THINK WE DO WANT TO CALL YOU?  JUST EXACTLY WHAT IS SO DAMN SPECIAL ABOUT YOU?)

Whether there is or isn't such news is something you have no control over.  Therefore, there's really no point worrying about it -- you have no control over it, so why worry?

Of course, if it were under your control -- which it's not, as I just made clear (assuming you were listening, which risks making an ass out of u and me) -- then there's really no point worrying about it -- you've got it under control, so why worry?

In other words, there's never any reason to worry, and I hope you take that lesson to heart.  I certainly have -- well, maybe not all the time.  But some of the time.  (Certainly not none of the time -- more of the time than that for sure.)

Yes, I am a man of mystery.  Yes, you desperately want to know more.  (And you desperately want to know why I am posting picture after picture of One Worldwide Plaza, an office building on Eighth Avenue.  That is for me to know and you to find out, mes amis.)  

But what you don't know won't hurt you.  (You may think it will, but it won't.  Trust me on that, boys and girls.)

(Surely that's enough for this post.)

Here's "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)":

Click below to buy the song from Amazon:

1 comment:

  1. This is one song I never listen to voluntarily. My first wife's name was Rosemary. She was my high school sweetheart, but by the time this song made the Top Ten (1970), the relationship had turned sour, and we eventually got "unhitched". The day before the judge's hammer came down and "Set You Free This Time" came to mind, I had a bit of musical therapy by attending a daytime Joan Jett show over in the San Fernando Valley.