Collected works of John S. Hall, mostly from the various King Missile recordings.
“Available” (but only in the loosest sense of the word) at amazon.com
Excerpts:
- I am a sensitive artist. Nobody understands me because I am so deep. In my work, I make allusions to books that nobody else has read, music that nobody else has heard, and art that nobody else has seen. I can’t help it, because I am so much more intelligent and well-rounded than everyone who surrounds me. (Sensitive Artist)
- Jesus was way cool. He told people to eat his body and drink his blood. That’s so cool. Jesus was so cool. But then some people got jealous of how cool he was, so they killed him. But then he rose from the dead! He rose from the dead, danced around, and went up to heaven. I mean, that’s so cool. Jesus was way cool. No wonder there are so many Christians. (Jesus Was Way Cool)
- If most of us were wind up-toys, could we trust the few of us that weren’t to wind us up when necessary? I think not. We would be a separate oppressed minority. Even if we were in the majority, it would still be that way. The ones that weren’t wind-up toys would have the upper hand, and we would have to look out for each other, because they wouldn’t. (Wind-Up Toys)
- I want to be different, like everybody else I want to be like. I want to be just like all the different people. I have no further interest in being the same, because I have seen difference all around, and now I know that that’s what I want. I don’t want to blend in and be indistinguishable. I want to be part of the different crowd, and assert my individuality along with others who are different like me. (It’s Saturday)
- In a way, I suppose you could say my experience is quite limited. For example, I never locked Oliver Cromwell in a broom closet while singing “Waltzing Matilda.” I never sawed a television in half, although I once saw Wendy O. Williams saw a guitar. I never played a decent game of jacks. I never played poker with a toothless one-eyed pirate who kept picking his teeth with a Bowie knife to distract me, while his parrot looked over my shoulder and told him what cards I had by using an elaborate code involving vomiting, chirping, and sea chanteys. (I’m Sorry)
- I wanna know about the commercial I saw on TV: An Irish guy walking through a field of green, whistling one of those Irish jigs, and a woman walks up and says, “Manly, yes, but I like it too.” Then the guy pulls out a huge knife and cuts off his first two fingers and somehow catches them in what’s left of his left hand and hands them to the woman. Did I mention they’re both dressed in green? Then they both sing this song together: “Are ya icky? Are ya sticky? Are ya hot as anything? Hey! Cut off two of your fingers, and stab yourself in the eye!” Then he stabs himself in the eye and hands her the knife, and she stabs herself in the eye, okay? Okay? So what about that? (The Commercial)
- When you call me up and command me to come over to your place for sex and tea biscuits, I shall clandestinely throw my cumberbund down the dumbwaiter chute. Lutes will serenade us, like liquid lemonade. You will glisten like newborn snow and I will listen like a clairvoyant nipple clamp. (Let’s Have Sex)
- I think it’s time we so-called “sensitive men” stopped kidding ourselves with all this crap about how guys in the Marines and garage mechanics and just generally, you know, macho guys—about how they’re insecure about their masculinity because they have little dicks, because that’s crap, and we know it. Guys in the military, construction workers, football players, they all have bigger dicks than you and I, and we might as well just accept it. Because it’s stupid and dishonest for us to go around implying that us literary, intellectual, politically aware, feminist-type men are actually more confident than the insensitive, sexist, brute-type men because size doesn’t matter, and even if it did, we have the bigger dicks, because this is bullshit. I think it’s high time we all took a good hard look at our dicks and faced the music. (A Good Hard Look)
