Today I've been indulging myself in You Tube videos of old film clips, particularly since my FB group is having a theme of posting songs relating to, or sung by teenagers. I got to thinking about teenage angst, in particular 'Young Love' by Tab Hunter (later covered by Donny Osmond), and found a clip of his first public performance on the Perry Como Show. I don't know why, but it's really touched me. Not the meaning of the song itself, but the performance. Tab is very shy, and looks about as comfortable as a postman at a dog show. But there was a real poignancy to the performance, probably stemming from his obvious nerves. I think he has a nice voice, and it's wavering a bit in spots, but that wobbliness just - for me, anyway - lends it that extra bit of sincerity. I don't care two hoots about pimple-encrusted, hormonal teenagers wanting to grope each other, per se. When kids talk about the depth of their love, I think, 'Pfffffft!' I guess I'm just a cynical old shit at times. I didn't really have my first love until I was just out of my teens, and he turned out to be a real dickheaded milquetoast. I met him at a Wa Wa Nee concert, so I guess that should have sounded the alarm bells. If you're wondering what I was doing at a Wa Wa Nee concert - I was dragged there by my cousin, so there!
Tab Hunter was someone who must have been tortured at times emotionally. He had to project the image of being a teen idol in the 50s, but he is gay and that of course is something that would have had to have been kept under wraps. I wonder is he as pleased with the results of the Irish referendum on same sex marriage as I am? It's time for our country to follow suit. I know it's not as easy it sounds to change a law, but it's not impossible, either. The subject of same sex marriage is the perfect cue for me to segue to my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', as one of the sub-plots deals with same-sex marriage. Go to http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm and read the first chapter. It also has a Marc Bolan impersonator, and that is surely something that would qualify the book for the Booker Prize.
In my post the other day, I mentioned cleaning a big chunk of khaki coloured dog effluvium from my cushion. My little guy hasn't been well. And whilst cleaning the dog barf is revolting, it pales in comparison to the canine arse-gravy that was sprayed into the carpet in my younger son's bedroom. We have floorboards, so thankfully this was only a floor rug. However, it's a big one and Mr Bingells was charged with the grotesque task of taking the rug out the back and hanging it on the clothesline for a blast with the hose (set at very high pressure). The stench was incalculably revolting. Both of us almost vomited. I pride myself on my resilience; my trip through Nepal years ago was the hallmark - I had to visit some revolting toilets were diarrhoea-stricken trekkers had voided only moments before I went in. Notwithstanding this, that disgusting crap on my son's carpet was almost my undoing. My pup is now in hospital, dosed up with antibiotics, anti-emetics, and fluids. He was tested for parvo, but thankfully that came back negative.
I must now fill in a template for another writer, who is doing writer interviews for her blog. If she publishes, I will share a link to this site.
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