Paroles New Yorkers Don't Care About Anything/A People's History Of Delaware de Adam Gnade + The Confederate Yankees

Textes et Paroles de New Yorkers Don't Care About Anything/A People's History Of Delaware

In the subway you ride and eavesdrop. Mexican family, father, baby son, and quiet pretty wife.



"Chucky," whispers dad reminding wide-eyed son about the movie they rented last night, Child's Play: Bride of Chucky.



"Nooo," whines son shaking his red brown mestiso puppy face, sweet face, smart and baby-minded.



"Chucky esta … aqui!" whispers dad, pulling son up to his face, making big scary boogie man eyes.



"Nooo," squirms son.



"Chucky ... el terrible muneca!" (Chucky the terrible doll.)



"Nooooo!"



Father's eyes are bright and happy; his wife smiles and shakes her head, goes back to US Weekly.



"Chucky esta su papi ahora!" (Chucky is your father now.)



"Nooo. Essstop eet!"



"Okay," he concedes, laughing and bouncing son on his knee like you're told families in America are supposed to act. But then, sly, catches son unaware whispering again

"Chuuucky" in warbling ghost voice.



"Aye, no!"



"Yo soy Chucky, Chucky su papi!"



Eavesdrop again. Alone in a coffee diner, just off the phone with her. She was crying in Virginia, everything falling apart.



"It was like everybody was givin' me the finger, all those cactuses," says the dark, under-shirted, Ital cook, big like 9/11 fireman statues, to his regulars at the counter. He's describing a trip he took last week you gather to Arizona to see his sister.



"You see any lizards?" asks an old woman, Jewish.



"I saw them."



"Geckos?"



"Them too."



"Roadrunners?"



"Naw, only in the cah-toon."



Later on, they're talking about a regular who just left.



"Yeeeah, she's a painter," says the cook, wiping the counter with a rag.



"Like Van Gogh?" quips a young Puerto Rico wise guy, maybe 18 in a flannel shirt and Tres Flores slicked gleam hair.



"Yeah, yeah."



New Yorkers, they don't care about anything.



Eavesdrop again at Coney Island. Nathan's Famous Hotdog cafe table. Chill of early evening. Under crying, soaring seagulls. Air smells of salt and sand. The cold breeze of summer's last days.



Jamie, his roommates, and you, drink Coors Light from Styrofoam cups, which tastes delicious, and eat hot French fries with ketchup and grease hamburgers



The homeless woman that looks like Flavor Flav stalks the tables, wanting money.



"You wanna fight now, cornbread?" she says to the black boy sweeping up soda cups and hot dog wrappers. "cornbread?" says Jamie laughing laughing laughing and laughing, you smile big and shake your head



The New York park, sunny while you write postcards, cross-legged in the grass. Groups of Mexican and Filipino women pushing strollers of blonde rich babies in the hot air.



But now you're leaving New York to save your woman, in a hot chariot of gold and fire, and show her you've changed, that you're better now, that you are healed, you are happy, you are virile, and a man, and not scared anymore. You will take her in your arms and say, "Yes darling, I will live up to my potential. Yes, I will write what I've promised and Dan and I will make the best record ever." You promise that You promise you'll come back to life and love her like she should be loved but you're still hours away and you've still have so far to go.



harrowing! The late-night dead souls at the Hollywood Motel outside Wilmington, Delaware, en route to Norfolk. Wilmington, where at 4 a.m. trucks lumber by with great cylinder tubes of gasoline or cement milk loads or crushed cars in flat stacks.



In the motel parking lot you sit in the motel parking lot ghouls of girls are shivering in the night air on speed or six in one room, flicking lighters and sucking white smoke trails from tinfoil pipes, billowing out lungfuls of sweet speed smoke 'til their hearts race and flutter and climb stepladders to heaven.



You pay and you get your key and park your car and they hover, looking out from bright-lit TV-flashed motel rooms, smoking cigarettes in shorts and wild hair, big bruises on their legs, floppy tits in no bra, big T-shirts, eyes like caves in sockets or dry wells, hovering the hover have of paid sex or to get high or higher. Just raw mule bones, big Reebok sneakers, and sweatshirts with college names on them, their faces like evil jack-o-lanterns of childhood October Halloween. Open-mouthed, smoking, and vultured.



"I don't want you," you think and lock yourself inside your room. You try to call her in Virginia but the lines are dead; your room is a ticking clock.



The hard darkness before morning, yellow-lit and cancered. Cancered! Cities 'neath overpass spans Delaware. Cancered! Staticy infomercials and softcore porn channels. Cancered! The Indian Hindu desk clerk taking your money in pajamas and red pained eyes, not tired but sick. Cancered! The smell of wet road. Wet grass pasture stink on your sneakers. Cancered! The motel sheets with ancient fleck of blood spots now browned. Cancered! The motel sign blinking and sick, Hollywood Motel, its "H" diseased and flickering.



Cancered! The metal click of crickets outside your window. Cancered! Your doubt creeps in. Cancered! Soldiers of spiders in the bathroom. Cancered! The 24-hour McDonald's with boil-faced old woman sitting in the drive-through window register box, slumped and toothless, staring out into the night, once beautied and water fat with youth. Cancered! You're free but you are not free. Cancered! The summer is ending! Cancered! Your grandfather is dying! Cancered! You are getting old!

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