Yer Stoned Italian Cowboy
I just woke up so bare with me. I'm chuggin some coffee and thinking about that goofy lil song. Here's the deal: There's a funny story that goes with Yer Stoned Italian Cowboy (YSIC, let's call it).
I have friends... Yes, it's unbelievable- ho ho... I have friends who are of Italian descent. So, ragging out an Italian protagonist causes me a bit of anxiety. I feel as though I ought to explain. The narrator in YSIC, of course, is me because it's my story and I can cry if I want to. There's the naughty little girl who broke my heart... really just nicked it or I wouldn't have such a sense of humor about it. And then there's the "stoned cowboy" who seems to wave his magic wand and all hell breaks loose. At a glance- there you have it.
The true story behind the song is:
I was involved in a relationship with a young English girl, a few years back. She was quite fond of X. First off, I don't recommend dating anybody, seriously, who takes X on a regular basis. For the record, I do not take drugs but I did try it once... walls vibrated, spine slipped out from under me, sweat burst from every pore, and my nose fell off. It was a weird experience. Too much maybe.
We, the girl and I, were having a great time together over there in London. I was only able to visit her for short periods as I have to live in Detroit or my hair falls out and I turn into a goblin. This circumstance did not make for a very healthy relationship because, as a very close friend of mine put it, "Proximity is everything." Right.
Upon my arrival to London Heathrow, one sunny morning, I was greeted by my hearts desire but with less outward affection than I had anticipated. I fancied myself a perceptive lad and instantly began keeping mental notes on the slight and varied changes in my loves behavior. It's best if you imagine this story is being read to you by Peter O'Toole.
Obviously, the first question out of my mouth is, "What's wrong?" To be followed by a steady stream of careful prodding... you know the drill. Much like opening a letter that's addressed to somebody else; use the blade wisely - pry at the glue gently - just a peek at the information - don't tear it wide open or you'll be emotionally responsible for whatever the fuck's in there.
Sprawled out in the back of a cab, on the way to her flat, apparently "nothing's wrong" and she's "very happy to see me."
Later that evening...
The sun's gone down, my suitcase is overflowing and on the floor, I'm against the wall across the bed, she's at the foot smoking. Perfect time for an impact.
I lead in with the heavy interrogation, full on and without mercy. To the point- what's the deal- I can tell- what's up- all day- I've noticed- out with it- I'm not stupid- then and now- your tone- eye contact- it's different- blah blah.
She cracks immediately.
Turns out, she tells me, that she went to Italy for a week. Ah ha! One night, while partying (of course), she met this boy and he, she, he, she, he, she, they slept together. Fuck!
I was furious!! Well, that, mixed with a dash of disdain and just a pinch of delight at the fact that I knew it all along.
So, the night went on with her room-mates covering their heads with pillows, I'm guessing, as we screamed at each other for a good 2 hours or so.
I had the floor... one of those rare opportunities to ask all inappropriate questions and actually get real answers. So...
"Did you enjoy him more than me?!"
Ack!! I know. Worst question in the world. Nobody wants the answer to that one.
Nobody deserves the answer to that one.
After the shock, emotional uproar, and unnecessarily extended session of recreational name calling... I believe "lesbian" was the last dagger thrown, which made no sense at all but did serve as a bit of comic relief as I packed my suitcase, slammed the bedroom door, and marched straight down the stairs and through the front door, into the street... where am I going?
There I was, London, alone, the middle of the night, and blood boiling without anywhere to cool off. Shit.
Back through the door, up the stairs, quietly, down the hall, to the right, into the bedroom, suitcase overflowing and on the floor, I lay back against the wall across the bed, she's at the foot smoking. Perfect time to re-evaluate the situation, rationally.
I explained why I was so angry. Not because she had performed some physical act with somebody else, but because of the emotional stress that she had caused herself and had taken time away from our fleeting romance. "There's just not enough time for this", I told her, affectionately. She looked at me, relieved, lovingly. There was a wonderful lull in the room and quiet. I realized that we could discuss this, together, and it wasn't as bad as my stomach made it seem. Think about it. Two people who enjoy each other should cherish their time together and not waste it with confusion and selfish pride. Ah, what a relief it is.
We continued from where we left off, before I had walked out earlier. We talked about Italy and how beautiful Naples is when the city's lit by the street lanterns and the view from the shore line at night would cause any romantic to swoon with delight. I expressed my understanding and told her that he must have been a very handsome, sophisticated man, well dressed and very charming. I understood, we were friends, and I could actually feel happiness for her to have such a surreal experience in a place with astonishing, ancient architecture... I could imagine feeling swept away by the atmosphere of the moment as if a dream or a long lost memory had returned and completely come to life at her command.
I wanted to know who this man was. Was he tall? Short or long hair? Did he have a good laugh? I'm certain that we would have much in common if we were to meet under different circumstances. I was curious. I even admired him. Why? I'll tell you... for his poise, his elegance. He was a distinguished gentleman and by no means would I embarrass myself any further by acting like a spoiled child. I felt ashamed. I was in the presence of a man who deserved my respect.
This was clearly not the time for folly, my friends.
I asked her if he spoke English well. She told me that he did indeed speak English. I wasn't surprised; he was obviously an educated man. I asked her from what part of Italy were his origins? She told me that he wasn't Italian...........
Huh? What was that?
"No, he wasn't Italian... he was a boy I met at a party during fashion week."
Oh, really? A boy. Fashion week? A party? Not the romantic italian gentleman I...
My blood pressure began rising to dangerously extreme levels. I could feel it.
"YOU mean to tell ME," I began "THAT you slept with someBODY wHILe YOU wERe IN ITALY AND HE WASN'T EVEN ITALIAN?!" SONOFABITCH!!!!!!!!
The room turned red, smoke poured from the floorboards, the ceiling caved in, the computer exploded, the bed began weeping, the chairs ran for their lives, the rug rolled into the closet, the lights were screaming, my teeth fell out, my pants fell off, the hindenburg crashed through the window, King Kong ate Fay Wray, icicles formed upside down from the gutters, God passed gas, trains derailed, mercury hit the roof, a dog spoke, Lincoln opened his eyes, clouds fell from the sky, mountains fainted, the oceans perspired, the hills gangbanged the valley, my mind errupted in a fever of obscenity!
INSULT TO INJURY!!!!
SONOFABITCH!!!!
WHAT A SCHMUCK I AM!!!!
I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!!
NOT ITALIAN!!!!
ARE YOU RETARDED?!!!
HOW COULD I BE SUCH A FOOL?!!!
INSUBORDINATION!!!!
YOU DO NOT
DO NICE THINGS!!!!
PRICK!!!!
CURSES!!!!
SAVAGE ASSHOLE!!!!
JERK!!!!
After the apocalypse we had a good laugh.
Cultivate the ability to see the ridiculous.
In the morning I opened my eyes. She was at her computer and I lit a cigarette in bed. I thought to myself, I could either walk out the door and never speak to her again or forgive her for hurting my feelings and just enjoy her.
Smoke spiraled through the sunbeams by the window pane. It looked like Christmas.
Yer Stoned Italian Cowboy
Yer stoned Italian cowboy he's a hustler in the dark
Buggerin the beauties promenading past the park
His ostrich buckle bucklin he's a dart mouth eye a puckerin
Layin every claim from Santiago to Madrid
Look out for his aim he shoots directly from the Id
Yer stoned Italian cowboy ate yer English up for lunch
Howlin at the moon his silver saddle on yer hunch
His chewin gum stuck in yer hair your sequin gown worn everywhere
Baby don't believe the things you read into his eyes
Darker than the sea there lies the depth of your demise
When you were my girl we were in love everyday
We were in love - You were my girl in every way
Yer stoned Italian cowboy conjures every wicked thought
Alone upon his throne it is well known he can't be caught
Your silky hair your creamy thighs a button nose your dreamy eyes
Steppin like a raindrop at your gates your Gunga Din
Wrappin at your window cause he knows you'll let him in
-Bobby Harlow
I have friends... Yes, it's unbelievable- ho ho... I have friends who are of Italian descent. So, ragging out an Italian protagonist causes me a bit of anxiety. I feel as though I ought to explain. The narrator in YSIC, of course, is me because it's my story and I can cry if I want to. There's the naughty little girl who broke my heart... really just nicked it or I wouldn't have such a sense of humor about it. And then there's the "stoned cowboy" who seems to wave his magic wand and all hell breaks loose. At a glance- there you have it.
The true story behind the song is:
I was involved in a relationship with a young English girl, a few years back. She was quite fond of X. First off, I don't recommend dating anybody, seriously, who takes X on a regular basis. For the record, I do not take drugs but I did try it once... walls vibrated, spine slipped out from under me, sweat burst from every pore, and my nose fell off. It was a weird experience. Too much maybe.
We, the girl and I, were having a great time together over there in London. I was only able to visit her for short periods as I have to live in Detroit or my hair falls out and I turn into a goblin. This circumstance did not make for a very healthy relationship because, as a very close friend of mine put it, "Proximity is everything." Right.
Upon my arrival to London Heathrow, one sunny morning, I was greeted by my hearts desire but with less outward affection than I had anticipated. I fancied myself a perceptive lad and instantly began keeping mental notes on the slight and varied changes in my loves behavior. It's best if you imagine this story is being read to you by Peter O'Toole.
Obviously, the first question out of my mouth is, "What's wrong?" To be followed by a steady stream of careful prodding... you know the drill. Much like opening a letter that's addressed to somebody else; use the blade wisely - pry at the glue gently - just a peek at the information - don't tear it wide open or you'll be emotionally responsible for whatever the fuck's in there.
Sprawled out in the back of a cab, on the way to her flat, apparently "nothing's wrong" and she's "very happy to see me."
Later that evening...
The sun's gone down, my suitcase is overflowing and on the floor, I'm against the wall across the bed, she's at the foot smoking. Perfect time for an impact.
I lead in with the heavy interrogation, full on and without mercy. To the point- what's the deal- I can tell- what's up- all day- I've noticed- out with it- I'm not stupid- then and now- your tone- eye contact- it's different- blah blah.
She cracks immediately.
Turns out, she tells me, that she went to Italy for a week. Ah ha! One night, while partying (of course), she met this boy and he, she, he, she, he, she, they slept together. Fuck!
I was furious!! Well, that, mixed with a dash of disdain and just a pinch of delight at the fact that I knew it all along.
So, the night went on with her room-mates covering their heads with pillows, I'm guessing, as we screamed at each other for a good 2 hours or so.
I had the floor... one of those rare opportunities to ask all inappropriate questions and actually get real answers. So...
"Did you enjoy him more than me?!"
Ack!! I know. Worst question in the world. Nobody wants the answer to that one.
Nobody deserves the answer to that one.
After the shock, emotional uproar, and unnecessarily extended session of recreational name calling... I believe "lesbian" was the last dagger thrown, which made no sense at all but did serve as a bit of comic relief as I packed my suitcase, slammed the bedroom door, and marched straight down the stairs and through the front door, into the street... where am I going?
There I was, London, alone, the middle of the night, and blood boiling without anywhere to cool off. Shit.
Back through the door, up the stairs, quietly, down the hall, to the right, into the bedroom, suitcase overflowing and on the floor, I lay back against the wall across the bed, she's at the foot smoking. Perfect time to re-evaluate the situation, rationally.
I explained why I was so angry. Not because she had performed some physical act with somebody else, but because of the emotional stress that she had caused herself and had taken time away from our fleeting romance. "There's just not enough time for this", I told her, affectionately. She looked at me, relieved, lovingly. There was a wonderful lull in the room and quiet. I realized that we could discuss this, together, and it wasn't as bad as my stomach made it seem. Think about it. Two people who enjoy each other should cherish their time together and not waste it with confusion and selfish pride. Ah, what a relief it is.
We continued from where we left off, before I had walked out earlier. We talked about Italy and how beautiful Naples is when the city's lit by the street lanterns and the view from the shore line at night would cause any romantic to swoon with delight. I expressed my understanding and told her that he must have been a very handsome, sophisticated man, well dressed and very charming. I understood, we were friends, and I could actually feel happiness for her to have such a surreal experience in a place with astonishing, ancient architecture... I could imagine feeling swept away by the atmosphere of the moment as if a dream or a long lost memory had returned and completely come to life at her command.
I wanted to know who this man was. Was he tall? Short or long hair? Did he have a good laugh? I'm certain that we would have much in common if we were to meet under different circumstances. I was curious. I even admired him. Why? I'll tell you... for his poise, his elegance. He was a distinguished gentleman and by no means would I embarrass myself any further by acting like a spoiled child. I felt ashamed. I was in the presence of a man who deserved my respect.
This was clearly not the time for folly, my friends.
I asked her if he spoke English well. She told me that he did indeed speak English. I wasn't surprised; he was obviously an educated man. I asked her from what part of Italy were his origins? She told me that he wasn't Italian...........
Huh? What was that?
"No, he wasn't Italian... he was a boy I met at a party during fashion week."
Oh, really? A boy. Fashion week? A party? Not the romantic italian gentleman I...
My blood pressure began rising to dangerously extreme levels. I could feel it.
"YOU mean to tell ME," I began "THAT you slept with someBODY wHILe YOU wERe IN ITALY AND HE WASN'T EVEN ITALIAN?!" SONOFABITCH!!!!!!!!
The room turned red, smoke poured from the floorboards, the ceiling caved in, the computer exploded, the bed began weeping, the chairs ran for their lives, the rug rolled into the closet, the lights were screaming, my teeth fell out, my pants fell off, the hindenburg crashed through the window, King Kong ate Fay Wray, icicles formed upside down from the gutters, God passed gas, trains derailed, mercury hit the roof, a dog spoke, Lincoln opened his eyes, clouds fell from the sky, mountains fainted, the oceans perspired, the hills gangbanged the valley, my mind errupted in a fever of obscenity!
INSULT TO INJURY!!!!
SONOFABITCH!!!!
WHAT A SCHMUCK I AM!!!!
I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!!
NOT ITALIAN!!!!
ARE YOU RETARDED?!!!
HOW COULD I BE SUCH A FOOL?!!!
INSUBORDINATION!!!!
YOU DO NOT
DO NICE THINGS!!!!
PRICK!!!!
CURSES!!!!
SAVAGE ASSHOLE!!!!
JERK!!!!
After the apocalypse we had a good laugh.
Cultivate the ability to see the ridiculous.
In the morning I opened my eyes. She was at her computer and I lit a cigarette in bed. I thought to myself, I could either walk out the door and never speak to her again or forgive her for hurting my feelings and just enjoy her.
Smoke spiraled through the sunbeams by the window pane. It looked like Christmas.
Yer Stoned Italian Cowboy
Yer stoned Italian cowboy he's a hustler in the dark
Buggerin the beauties promenading past the park
His ostrich buckle bucklin he's a dart mouth eye a puckerin
Layin every claim from Santiago to Madrid
Look out for his aim he shoots directly from the Id
Yer stoned Italian cowboy ate yer English up for lunch
Howlin at the moon his silver saddle on yer hunch
His chewin gum stuck in yer hair your sequin gown worn everywhere
Baby don't believe the things you read into his eyes
Darker than the sea there lies the depth of your demise
When you were my girl we were in love everyday
We were in love - You were my girl in every way
Yer stoned Italian cowboy conjures every wicked thought
Alone upon his throne it is well known he can't be caught
Your silky hair your creamy thighs a button nose your dreamy eyes
Steppin like a raindrop at your gates your Gunga Din
Wrappin at your window cause he knows you'll let him in
-Bobby Harlow
