Saturday, July 29, 2006

I Shot the Sheriff (Bob Marley)

A hearty greeting to those visiting us from King of Zembla! We have arranged for a troupe of Zemblan dancers to present a medley of native dances, which starts in about half an hour.

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Language: Greek

I'm not sure what to say about this one. The husband and I continue the moving process: painting was done Friday morning and now we're waiting for new carpet and linoleum. Also there are issues with the bathroom, like how it's moldy and rusty and filthy and falling apart. The apartment manager is supposed to tend to the bathroom, but it's not known exactly when this is going to happen: it could end up being after we've moved. Probably will be, in fact, because 1) she's got a lot of more urgent stuff on her mind at the moment, and 2) she's pissed at us for using too much paint during the repainting and getting too much on the carpet pad.


Neither Babelpop! nor its contributors, nor Blogger, nor anybody at all, really, that I'm aware of, condones the shooting of sheriffs, their assistants / deputies, or anyone else connected with law enforcement, though we might be willing to make an exception in the case of self-defense. Babelpop! and its affiliates, contributors, etc. wish to emphasize that the shooting of the Sheriff of Ashland County, Ohio (pictured) is not being advocated despite his photo being shown above. It was just that his was the first picture I, Jessica M. Guilford, ran across and decided to use for purposes of this post. 'Cause of how he's all sexy and stuff.
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(I shot the sheriff,
but didn't shoot no assistant, Oh, no! Oh!
I shot the sheriff,
but didn't shoot no assistant, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh.)
Yes! A domestic all around my city,
they try to discover me.
They say that they want me; they bring in guilt
for the murder of an assistant,
for the life of an assistant.
But I say:

Oh, now, now. Oh!
(I shot the sheriff.) The sheriff.
(But under oath: he was alone in that. I'm put on the defensive.)
Oh, No! (Ooh, ooh, oo-oh) Yes!
I say: I shot the sheriff – Oh, Lord! –
(And they say that it's a main infringement.)
Yes! (Ooh, ooh, oo-oh) Yes!

The sheriff, John Brown, is always hateful,
I don't know what for.
Each time I planted a seed,
he said, "Before this killing is increased –
you kill them." He said that, before they were increased.
And thus:

You read about him in the news.
(I shot the sheriff.) Oh, Lord!
(But under oath: he was alone in that. I'm put on the defensive.)
Where was the assistant? (Oo-oh) She
said I shot the sheriff,
but, under oath: she is alone in that. I'm put on the defensive. (Oo-oh) Yes!

The freedom came my way one day
from the city: yes! And I began.
Suddenly, I saw John Brown, the sheriff,
Aiming downward, in order to bring me.
I shot -- I shot thusly -- I brought him down, and I say:
If I'm guilty, I'll pay.

(I shot the sheriff)
But I say (But I didn't shoot no assistants),
I did not shoot no assistant (Oh), oh no!
(I shot the sheriff.) !
But I didn't shoot no assistants. Oh! (Oo-oo-ooh)

I've had better reflections;
but: what you are should be what they are.
Each day is a bucket before the well,
one day is fall, outside, or the point just before,
one day is fall, outside, or the point just before.
I say:

I, I shot the sheriff;
God shot the assistant. Yes!
I, I (shot a sheriff) –
but I didn't shoot no assistants. Yes! No, yes!

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Paint It (Rolling Stones)

Language: German

The husband and I are moving at the end of the month, or possibly slightly before; for the moment, we're trying to repaint the new place, so the landlord can get in and re-carpet, so we can move our stuff, so we can clean the old place, and so on and so forth. I spent about 7 hours painting yesterday; he spent longer. Thus, this song.

We're not painting anything black, as far as I'm aware. White mainly, and then one room in baby blue (no, I'm not pregnant, but it's good to be prepared, right?), one room in "Derby Green," which is somewhere in between a regular green and a dark green, and then there's going to be a maroonish wall in the living room. That's it. But there turn out to be lots of, you know, surfaces, in the place. You know how these things work.


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I see it's black, and I didn't paint that red door black.
I wish it were black, or more colors, to
see. I wish the girl would turn to go in her summer clothes;
I mean, my density must turn to go, past a dressed head.

I see that line of cars, and they're all painted black.
My love, never to return with flowers, looks to see
people turn their heads to me.
Baby, you happen to them each day, straight as a newborn.

I look within me and see my black heart is
painted black. I see my red door and it
doesn't have facts, possibly: then I will be away, and
confront your simple world. It verges on the whole, if is black, not faded.

Any more saké? My blue sea goes a deeper green, a revolution.
This thing which you couldn't foresee happens.

If I adjust my sunned-in looks strongly enough,
my love will laugh with me when the morning comes.

I see that red door, and I didn't paint it black.
I turn to more colors: to wish it black
is past. The girls go see, dressed in summer clothes. I wish to her
that my head turned, my density would go.

Hmm, hmm, must hmm...

I would like to see it painted black:
black as a night, black, coal.
I would like to see the sky, would like the sun
painted out. See to it. I stained, painted, painted, painted that black.
Yeah, painted!

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Strike Me With Your Best Survey (Pat Benatar)

Language: Russian

I understand why people do surveys and polls and such. I don't understand why people will tell pollsters the truth. I mean, for a while there, lots of people, especially on the right, were complaining about how Bill Clinton was a flip-flopper and had no ideas of his own and was governing according to polls, and this was stupid and showed that he had no moral center or whatever. And during election years, especially Presidential elections, lots of people on the left complain about how media coverage of the campaign is all horse-race stuff: who's ahead, who's behind, and the issues don't get discussed at all. So it's clear that polling is a Big Problem.

But I've never heard anybody propose the obvious solution to too much polling: lying. If polls stopped reflecting the opinions and priorities of the populace, then they'd be useless, and at some point people would stop bothering to do them. Now, I suspect that excessive polling is probably the lesser of two evils: I just don't know what the other evil would be (though it's a safe bet that it's a descendant or former employee of George H. W. Bush). But even so, if you're really bothered, it's something to try. 2008 isn't that far away.

Anyway. I've seen Russian turn "shot" to "survey" a few times, but rarely so thoroughly and consistently. I approve of the resulting weirdness.


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You're the real rough cookie, with a longer history
than mine of breaking small hearts. As in,
you make them okay as you prevent one. To see in order,
in order to assume up your dukes, it prevents in order to get up to it!

Strike me with the best survey you make!
Why don't you strike me with your best survey?
Strike me with your best survey! Fire away!

You come further with war, you don't come further fairly,
but see, I worry if that'll be okay.
Knock me downward, it will all be in vain,
I will obtain a tail end again, right on my feet!

Strike me with the best survey you make!
Why don't you strike me with your best survey?
Strike me with your best survey! Fire away!

By the real rough cookie, you will kindly lengthen the history which
breaks small hearts. Before me,
I treasure my lipstick case. Another notch in
your place is better than making more of it. You're into my sure places.

Strike me with your best survey!
Arrive further, strike me with your best survey!
Strike me with your best survey! Fire away!
Strike me with your best survey!
Why don't you make me strike with your best survey!
Strike me with your best survey! Fire away!

Monday, July 24, 2006

Me and Bobby McGee (Janis Joplin)

Language: Dutch

I used to like this song, and then I had a job where for three months, I heard this over and over and over from the local Oldies station (which was also responsible for a good chunk of my "American Pie" exposure), and now I dislike it very enthusiastically. Which is sad.

It nevertheless seemed like the thing to post today, because: 1) It was ready to be posted, 2) It's kind of depressive, and so am I (bummed out about employment issues), and 3) the re-working manages to freshen it up enough that it doesn't quite occupy the same space in my brain as the original.

The tendency of Dutch to translate "la la la" as "drawer drawer drawer" continues to puzzle me, although we've seen it before.


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A busted train waits in Baton Rouge. I felt plain,
and so almost disappeared. My "slow jeans" are this way.
Flat Bobby thumbed a diesel before it rained;
we rode it to New Orleans, in our ready manner.

I drew my harpoon from my dirty red bandana:
I played gently, whereas Bobby sang the blues.
Wipers which were loved of the louvre-board, I slapped Bobby's hand in my time,
we sang each song that the driver knew.

Freedom is only a another word for loose leaves.
Honey ain't free now: it means nothing, nothing such as the
feel. And, well, the Lord was easy, and then he sang the blues.
Well, you feel good enough for me.
My Bobby McGee and me were well enough.

Of the Kentucky coal, to the California sun-mining,
hey, Bobby shared the mysteries of my soul.
By, everything that we did, all kinds of
my babies held back. Hey, Bobby: you cold?

One day up near Salinas, the Lord omitted him. I slipped
at that house. I have hope that he's looking, and he
finds a trade, but for yesterday. Each of my tomorrows
selects Bobby's body to love, beside me.

Freedom is only a another word for loose leaves. That's nothing;
Bobby left me nothing. Yes, all that
feeling easy was good, but, Lord, then he sang the blues.
Hey, well was well enough, hmm?
well enough for me and my Bobby McGee feel hmm.

LaLa van La,
LaLa van LaLa,
LaLa's drawer,
of LaLa van LaLa,
LaLa van Lavan
LaLa Bobby McGee.
Van of LaLa van La LaLa,
of LaLa van LaLa,
LaLa van van
LaLa LaLa,
Bobby McGee, the drawer.

Drawer of drawer,
LaLa van LaLa, LaLa's drawer,
of La van LaLa
van La van LaLa
LaLa's drawer.
Hey now, Bobby,
Bobby McGee: yes, now.
NaNa van NaNa
NaNa after NaNa van NaNa,
van NaNa, van NaNa,
after van NaNa,
Hey now, Bobby now,
Bobby McGee. Yes.

My Lord, who calls the people to clamour,
calls only my best lover. I said,
where can Bobby progress now? Yes, where is Bobby McGee?
Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lord,
hey hey, hey, Lord, Bobby McGee!

Yes! Whew!

Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, Lord,
hey hey, hey, Bobby McGee.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

I Think I'm Paranoid (Garbage)

Language: Dutch

The husband and I got really trashed Friday night and watched Left Behind II: Tribulation Force, which he checked out from the public library. Now, I know what some of you are thinking, but it's OKAY: we'd seen the first one a few weeks ago, so we knew what was going on with the story and weren't confused.

With the first movie, we'd tried to make a drinking game out of it, by taking a drink every time somebody said "God" or "Jesus." Unfortunately, that didn't work very well at all, and left us far too sober to enjoy the thing: for some reason they save all the God talk until the last fifteen minutes. When it became clear that we were not going to be drunk enough to enjoy the ending, we switched to drinking every time someone's name is mentioned and that pumped up the collective BAC1 to the point where the ending of the movie was more or less okay.

Learning from that experience, this time we just started out with the name-game, instead of the God-game. Either one would have been pretty brutal: there's a lot more God talk all the way through the whole second movie. But in any case, we went with names, and I got more intoxicated than I've been in a long time, by the end of the movie.

So what'd we think? Well, as theology, it's not very convincing. And sometimes the script kind of just assumes that everybody watching is a Christian, so for example, there's a scene where the Antichrist (Gordon Currie, pictured: he was way cuter in the first movie than in the second, by the way), who is by this point the Secretary General of the U.N., declares that religion is a big problem and it's been responsible for lots of wars and fighting and whatever, and that in order to make this all go away, he's just going to declare that the whole world all has one unified religion now. And then quotes a chunk of the Lord's Prayer, which I'm thinking would be a pretty boneheaded move for somebody who is supposedly interested in unifying the world's religions into one. I mean, like the Hindus who are watching him on the news are going to just stop being Hindus and take on this new world religion which sounds suspiciously like Christianity just because the Secretary General of the U.N. says so.

Which is the first of two big weaknesses with the films, that LaHaye and Jenkins seem to have written the books with the understanding that everybody secretly wants to be a Christian and would recognize it as perfectly obvious and sensible. So the characters periodically do or think completely inexplicable things, which only make sense if you accept as a premise that Jesus Is Magic, and everybody is either Evil, Christian, or unchurched: no one who is non-Christian actually believes whatever they claim to believe, be this Islam, Wicca, agnosticism, or whatever.

The other big weakness is that the whole "Left Behind" dealio is based on making you paranoid enough that you'll buy the first premise. This song is a stretch, I know, but it's the only song I could think of that would justify talking about the movie(s), and I did want to talk about the movie(s).


1=blood alcohol level
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You can look at it, but touch it
not: I don't think much of you.
What can a little girl do to the sky?
You know what you must prove.

I think the paranoid are complicated, and
I think I manipulate the paranoid.

Anyhow, bend me, break me: you require all of me.
I want you to bow to me;
that's all I want. You split (break) me up easily.

You give up an ultrasound if I fall.
I would be lacking support: have another pill with me.
If I must fold, I'll
nail my belief to the sticking pole.

I think the paranoid are complicated, and they bend me, break me --
I wants you to. You require my all, anyhow.
Bend me, break me -- that's easy. I want all of
you paranoids to think I split. I'm up.

Bend me, break me -- you require all of me anyhow.
I want you to bend me, break me,
all I want you to do is easy.
You mutilated me, split me, stole my treats . . . anyway, I healed up.
You can never change me, control me, or love me.
Please come ahead, teases, and fight me as myself.
Leave me the baby already, and continue to want. That's right.

In any manner you wish, bend me, break me:
as long as I want you, baby, it's right already.

Nightswimming (R. E. M.)

Language: Portuguese

This is very likely my favorite
R. E. M. song ever, and it's up there in the top 50 songs period, probably, unless I think of others. (I've never sat down and tried to come up with a list, which is strange, since it's totally the kind of thing I would do.) Though as soon as I say that, I'm going to think of another song of theirs that I think is better.

(Well, "Belong" is nice. Though I'm not sure it's better. And I probably couldn't get away with using a picture of a bioluminescent squid for "Belong." It'd depend on what you envision for the "those creatures jumped the barricades" lines.)

In any case. I like it, a lot of other people like it, and if you're still reading this, then odds are good that you think it's at least okay.


Squid photo by Dany Weinberg, found through Pharyngula

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Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
The photograph in the dashboard:
the years have made an examination,
the lathe stops, turned in backwards, thus the windscreen shows.
Each streetlight discloses the reversed picture.
Still, it is very clear.
I forgot myself, my shirt, in the edge of the water.
The night's moon is low today.

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
I am not certain I understand all these people.
He isn't, as he has years. He stopped the fear to start, of recklessness and the water.
They cannot see me undressed.
These things, leave, substituted for daily.

Nightswimming, remembering this night.
Septembers that come soon. I pine for the moon.
Two, side by side in the orbit around the sun. Will that be more just?
That shining drum, pressed forever,
could not describe nightswimming.

I thought that you knew it.
I cannot judge who you
thought that you knew: me, you, him. Quiet,
this laughing at my breath, underneath.

The photograph reflects that, each streetlight is a reminder.
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night,
deserves a quiet night.

Friday, July 21, 2006

The Ballad of Jed Clampett (Paul Henning)

(from the Spanish)

TV Theme Song Friday manages to fall on a Friday this week. Merrill Markoe once asked Sherwood Schwartz why the theme songs he wrote for Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch were so explicit in explaining each show’s premise and he said something like “Because confused people can’t laugh.” That little bit of show biz acumen was possessed by Schwartz’ predecessor: Paul Henning (right), theme song writer for and series creator of “The Beverly Hillbillies” (and producer of its more Dadaist inverse, “Green Acres”; also “Petticoat Junction”, though neither of those songs were performed by Flatt and Scruggs, like this one).

A critic whose name I can’t find apparently summed up the show as “one joke, nine years”; I say, there’s no shame in

Thank you, Paul Henning; if you were alive, I'd tell you about what happened with the “Texas Tea” line and we would laugh with confusion (in Spanish: “¡Ja ja ja!”) and then we'd talk about how well this show would go over if set in modern day Mexico: 40% of the population is looking for this kind of escapism.
If only they could afford TVs.
(Please get your people working on this, whoever ended up winning.)


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It comes and it listens to my history on a named man Jed.
To mountaineer: poor. Hardly kept to his feed from the family.
Then, a day, it threw in a little food,
And raises of the Earth comes a gross petroleum that bubbled:
Black gold of the oil, that is to say, tea of roofing tiles

The first thing, you, you know a millionaire: Jed as an older person.
Kinfolk said, “Jed, movement far from there.”
They said, “California is the place that you ought to be,”
So they loaded upon the car and they were transferred to Beverly:
Swimming pools of hills, that is to say, cinema stars.

Beverly! The hillbillies!

[Closing credits verse:]

Now is the hour to say good bye to Jed. And all their kinships
Wanted to thank for people, to him, amiably to fall inside.
You are everything. Behind, invited the week next to this place.
Helping that piles up of its hospitality:
Hillbilly, that is to say, has fixed an enchantment, acquittal of your shoes,
You that now becomes everything? You, you hear?

Pink Houses (John Cougar Mellencamp)

Language: German

My mother was fond of referring to the Malvina Reynolds song "Little Boxes," which expresses much the same sentiment. It's possible that she just enjoyed saying "ticky-tacky." Mom's like that.

But every generation gets the anti-suburbia song it deserves, and I guess this is mine. It's okay, I guess. Do all John Cougar Mellencamp songs make reference at some point to young people with lots of potential realizing they're never going to have what they always assumed they were going to have, or is it just the ones I know, or just the ones that got popular, or what? 'Cause, frankly, that shit's getting kind of tired. Or hits too close to home. Something.


picture of public housing in Ixtapaluca, Mexico City via Future Feeder.

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He lives within a black neighbourhood, which gives a black man a black cat.
He has an intergovernmental enterprise by its front yard;
well, so, he has that.
And up there in the evening slop is the kitchen-cleaning woman.
He can regard her himself, and says,
"I think you could stop on a favorite clock," as he reminds his master.

However, that's America for you and me; oh,
that baby isn't to be seen. America is not something:
America isn't that free house.
Small pink houses for you and me.

A young man is there in a t-shirt role,
hearing a swinging station:
he must have smudgy hair, and a smudgy smile
He says, "Lord, it's my destination place."
Because they explained to me, when I was younger,
"Boy, you will be president."
But like everything, straight or otherwise,
those old dreams came straight, moved, and went crazy.


Wells are people there, and more people
know knowing, which they
go, in any high ascent. To work is to know.
Down in the gulf, there are Mexican holidays,
(ooh, yeah),
and winners. And there are losers,
but they're no large agreement, not
for the baby, because the simple man calculates, thrills, and pays for
those killing pills.


Thursday, July 20, 2006

Embrace Them for Me (Siouxie and the Banshees)

Language: French

Trivia about this post:

"Siouxie and the Banshees" emerges from the French as "Siouxie and the White Injury."

The song is an homage to Jayne Mansfield (pictured), who appeared in a 1957 film called "Kiss Them for Me" with Cary Grant. I think I liked the song better before I knew that, but I'll get over it.

Siouxie Sioux's (given name: Susan Janet Ballion) father was a laboratory technician who 'milked' poisonous snakes for their venom. (source) And he was alcoholic to boot (he died when Susan was 14), which it seems like people might have raised concerns about his profession if they knew that, but whatever.

"Divoon" is some kind of slang equivalent of "divine," which I had never heard of before doing this song. But then, I had kind of a sheltered childhood.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It scintillates, and it has a shine,
the arrival of Queen for a ring of
beauty and a car.
Now you're prettier, by far more.
No part of him occupies himself more than the
invitation he didn't send.
Transfixed by the interior noise,
to find your promise.

Nothing or nobody: never make me
have to leave you the bottom.

Embrace it for me -- I can delay it.
Embrace for me, if I'm delayed.

It's divoon, oh, it's serene, that
in the pink champagne fountain is
their devotion, which somebody cut out
in the swimming pool.

Nothing or nobody: never make me
have to leave you the bottom.

Embrace it for me -- I can be delayed.
Embrace it for me -- I can find myself delayed. (That's lucky.)

On the road with the jet of New Orleans:
the first role blows the screen.
As the tenth impact gleamed,
the prohibited candles radiated.

Embrace them for me -- I can be delayed.
Embrace them for me -- I can find myself delayed. (That's lucky.)

Embrace them for me -- embrace them for me
Embrace them for me -- I can find myself delayed and lucky.

God (Tori Amos)

Language: Portuguese

This is possibly the only song I've posted so far where I actually got out the CD and listened to it to get the words. Occasionally, I've listened over and over to a song here or there just because I enjoy listening to it (for example The Rabbet is in the Heart), but that wasn't to get the words, that was just to hear the song again.

My lyrics lined up just fine with those in the CD cover except for two places: one, there's a bit that's spoken, just barely loud enough to be audible, which I'm told on reasonably good authority is Tori quoting Proverbs 31:3 ("Give not thy strength unto women, nor thy ways to that which destroyeth kings," in the KJV) and which she declined to include in the published lyrics.

The other is that there are a number of occasions where it sounds to me like she's singing "God, sometimes you just don't come through" with a "babe" on the end. She may not be, but it seemed to me like an improvement on the original even if she's not saying it, so I included some possibly-extraneous "babes" in the choruses. Which were promptly swallowed and eaten by the Babelfish Gnome, (mythic beast which resides in the Babelfish code and eliminates potentially interesting things from the text that's returned.) but oh well. Possibly this is the origin of the "dribbling," which is otherwise inexplicable, though turning babes into dribbling is kind of inexplicable itself. We may never know.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

God, you don't only come through the time.
God, you don't come to complete the time.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely; only in the pretty times.

You make pretty daisies, daisies. (Say that you'll come for the lower half of me.) You started to love to find me, to find, to find.
What you're making of the things (You, who make that.)
starts short, if I'm toasty.
Here – whom to burn? Some witches, while you're here? (What do you know of them?)
I started to find finding, for finding,
because you always go when she establishes the wind.

God, you don't only come through the time.
God, you don't come to complete the time; you dribble.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely in time.

Perhaps you say that you are wild:
I'll understand that, then. (Say it low, that you'll come for me.)
You started its nine-iron in the back seat; nine
just in case the
South heard you. Oh, good: it dribbles.
I know you love their new four-wheel. (What they know of you: what you know.)
I started because you always establish the wind, when you find it's gone.

(Spoken: Until a woman forces your elasticity,
it will destroy your kings that way)

You decide if you make the sky fall: it says to itself, exactly that.
Now you will decide to make the sky, if it says "exactly" to you and to itself.

God, you don't only come through the time.
God, you don't come to complete the time; you dribble.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely.
You'll need a woman to look at that later.
God, you don't come completely in time.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

So Don't Cost Me So Close (Police)

Language: Russian

I can't say that I ever had a crush on any of my teachers, at least as far as I can remember. In fact, I don't even remember thinking that any of them would be remotely interesting or pleasant to have sex with. The only possible exception was Mr. R------, my Government and Psychology teacher, and it wasn't so much that he was cute as that he was young enough (I'm guessing mid-20s) not to be entirely gross. Though maybe he was a little bit cute. I'd have to see a picture or something.

What's wrong with this girl, anyway? I mean, okay, maybe if your teacher looks like Sting circa 1985 (pictured), then having a crush is reasonable. Or even possibly obligatory, for straight girls and gay guys. But otherwise (and let's keep in mind that very, very few people ever sat in Sting's English classes), wouldn't it make more sense to be looking at the other students? I mean, how often is a teacher going to be the most crush-able human being in the whole high school?

So, in conclusion, I question the very premise of this whole song. And what was Sting doing thinking about this sort of thing in the first place? Were there not enough groupies or something?


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A young teacher
questions the fantasy of a schoolgirl.
He wants her, which is
bad; he knows it's so.
He wants to be in order,
longing inside, marking
the page of the book this girl opened –
Therefore, now, this girl
will only be his half of the time.

Therefore don't cost, don't cost,
don't cost me so close.

Therefore, jealous friends.
(You know how poor girls are obtained.)
Sometimes it's not so light, as they're
the teacher's temptation, in order to be the pet,
therefore frustration and failure.
A moist cry tires them. She makes a stop with
his automobile, and she awaits a "dry heat."

Therefore don't cost, don't cost,
don't cost me so close, will you?

In the class for free conversation, that
hurt. In its attempts and attempts to order them,
the staff room formulated decisive expressions, in
which accusations will benefit. Any fly sees it.
He is himself, they are her: he begins to shake,
and to cough, as old as the valid person
in that Nabakov book.

Therefore don't cost, don't cost,
don't cost me so close.
Therefore don't cost, don't cost,
don't cost me so close.

Monday, July 17, 2006

The Sky Knows They are Poor in That Hour (Smiths)

Language: Italian

The diagnosis, with which I'm not sure I agree, was: canker sore in an unusual and unlikely place. The alternatives (herpes, HIV, yeast infection) were all much worse, so it's not a bad diagnosis, particularly. On the other hand, I'm told I have to just let it run its course, which means no instant gratification from antibiotics, and if the doctors are wrong, I'll be dealing with this for several more days, until I can get back for another option. Even letting it run its course could mean several more days of trouble swallowing.

The treatment recommended to me was alum, which I already had, from the prior canker sore a few weeks ago.1 It's painful, but less painful than a salt-water gargle, which was also proposed.

So, kids: remember to be careful when brushing your teeth. One hard bang into the wrong spot, and you're jabbing open sores in the back of your throat with alum-soaked Q-Tips for a week. This has been your Babelpop Learning Moment™ for the day.

Meanwhile, varying degrees of miserable. Hence the song. Though I was expecting the title to stay a little closer to the original ("Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now"), this works for me too. I will try to refrain from further throat-related updates unless they're a lot more interesting than this one.


1Alum is also increasingly difficult to find in stores, by the way. It seems to have fallen out of favor as a canker sore treatment, though I haven't seen anything to explain why. Maybe worries about Alzheimer's? Or maybe it's just that people don't like the taste (sweet / sour / metallic)?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I was happy in a drunken hour of opacity,
but the sky knows they are poor in that hour.

I was trying out a job, and then I've found a job,
but the sky knows they are poor in that hour.

In my life
why give the important, popular time:
if I die, who are alive but not taken care of?

It passes near two lovers entwined,
but the sky knows they are poor in that hour.

I was trying out a job, and then I've found a job,
but the sky knows they are poor in that hour.

In my life
oh, why do I damage the important, popular time?
Who dies, if not taken care of?

For me, the conclusion has asked: which thing
would have the day? (Caligula blushed.)

"The house is much too long -- have you been in it?" she has said,
and naturally, I escaped it.

In my life,
why care for
people that you would rather give an eye to, in soccer?

I was happy in a drunken hour of opacity,
but the sky knows they are poor in that hour.

"The house is much too long -- have you been in it?" she has said,
and naturally, I escaped it.

In my life
why give the important, popular time?
Who is alive, if not taken care of?

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Comfortably Numb (Pink Floyd)

Language: Spanish

There's a benzoin / novocaine mixture out there that's marketed as a canker sore reliever. The novocaine numbs the sore, and the benzoin covers it up so it can heal. It's pretty cool. I have some left over from a few weeks ago, so I tried it on the throat a few days ago, and it worked well enough, so I've kept it up.

I often gag myself while trying to put it on: the wound (or whatever the hell it is) is far enough back there that I can't see it very well when I'm trying to put the stuff on, and since the applicator that comes with the thing in the first place is much too short to be useful for something toward the back of the throat, I've had to improvise with Q-tips and a plastic tube, so the actual process is mostly just me making various blind swipes in the general vicinity, one of which inevitably gets too close to the uvula, and then I gag for a bit.

Also there's often some incidental drooling.

But it's worth it, because once the novocaine kicks in, I get to stop hurting for a little while.

(Yes, I am going to try to see a doctor on Monday.)

Speaking of gagging: here's a Pink Floyd song I don't especially care for.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Anyone has it inside there?
Right. . . . Can you hear me pitching if
there are any homemade people?
Advanced, now:
I hear that one of you is feeling down.
Well I can facilitate his pain, and
get his feet to him again.
I need certain information first.
The basic facts can hardly
demonstrate to me where you hurt.

There is no pain; you're backing down, the
smoke of a distant ship in the horizon.
You're only coming to traverse waves.
Their lips move, but I can't hear what they're saying.

When he was a boy, he had a fever.
My hands felt like jousts, like two globes.
Now and again, I get that sensation.
I cannot explain: you wouldn't understand.
This one isn't how I am.
I'm done, comfortably numb.
Hardly a small pinch.
It won't have more, won't . . . Aaaaaahhhhh!
You can feel a little ill, but
can you be unemployed?
I believe that he's working above, for good.
That'll go for your demonstration of subsistence:
the hour to go comes upon him.

There is no pain; you're backing down, the
smoke of a distant ship in the horizon.
You're only coming to traverse waves.
Their lips move, but I can't hear what they're saying.

When he was an ephemeral boy, I took a glance,
outside that corner of my eye. The
I returned the glance, but it was going.
I can't put my finger in him now.
They grow toward the boy; the dream goes away.
I'm done, comfortably numb.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Each Rose Has Thorns (Poison)

Language: Russian

The throat problems I mentioned in passing in the last post have gotten worse. The story is basically that I somehow scratched the right side of my throat (food? toothbrush?), and it's failing to heal up properly. As yet, no fever, no swelling, no visible changes at all, really. But the pain is getting worse, and moving around.

I've enjoyed having a throat in the past: it's handy for, you know, eating, drinking, speaking, and so forth. But I'm beginning to reconsider whether they're really worth all the trouble.

Well I guess that's why they say
Every rose has its thorn. . . .


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

We both lie silently still
at the night's dead people.
Although we lie close together,
we feel miles apart inside.

Something I said or something I made
from the right gave you words; however,
I attempted not to hurt you; however, I attempted it,
but I guess that's why they talk.

Each rose has thorns,
as each night has our dawn,
as each cowboy sings his sad, sad song,
each rose has its thorns.

Yeah, that.

I listen to our most favorite song, playing on the radio.
I hear the loves of the game DJ. His opinion – easy to come, and easy to go.
But I find it interesting: I know I've always felt this way,
and I know that you were here somehow.

If I could've prevented it, you know, somehow,
then however much the time interval was, I guess
I could still feel only so much pain.
Like a knife which wounds you, they cure it, but
the scar: I know those scar remnants.

I could preserve that night's love if
I knew to say instead
to make love with us.
They both made our roads separately.

Now I hear that you're considering someone new,
and that I never meant that much to you.
In order to hear that, I break upward to inward,
and seeing you cuts me as a knife, I guess.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Yoshimi Fights the Robot Roz, First Part (Flaming Lips)

Language: Greek

It's late, and my throat hurts, and I can't think of anything clever to say except to note that we're all, technically, part vitamins, which probably isn't all that clever either. Oh, and: I have trouble reading this without thinking about Hurricane Katrina, of all things, for reasons which may or may not be obvious.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Her name is Yoshimi.
Karate is a black area
that functions for the city.
Should it discipline her body
because it knows that
she requires it?
Overcome those bad machines;
I know it can defeat them.

Oh Yoshimi, they don't consider me,
won't; leave those robots to overcome me.
Oh Yoshimi, don't they consider me, that
won't leave? But those robots come over to me.

That bad-natured robot,
this catastrophe program: I am us. I
should fight this; I'm powerful. I
take this. I am part vitamin. Thus, I . . . .
Because I know that this
will be tragic, I
gain if that villain robot – (I,
I know this.)

Oh Yoshimi, they don't consider me,
won't; leave those robots to overcome me.
Oh Yoshimi, don't they consider me, that
won't leave? But eat me, Yoshimi. To the robots!

Because that, she knows,
would be tragic.
If bad robots gain those,
their cans know defeat.

Yoshimi, they don't consider me,
won't; leave those robots to overcome me.
Yoshimi, they don't consider me,
won't; leave those robots to overcome me.
Oh Yoshimi, don't they consider me, that
won't leave? But eat me, Yoshimi. To the robots!
Oh Yoshimi, don't they consider me, that
won't leave? But eat me, Yoshimi. To the robots!
Yoshimi . . . .

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Losing My Religion (R.E.M.)

Language: Italian

I worried, as anyone would, about whether R.E.M. would make suitable Babelpop subjects. Their lyrics do often sound like they've already been run through Babelfish. I mean, what would you expect to happen to a line like "Mister Fred Blassie in a breakfast mess?"1

I think I was right to worry, now that I've done it. A word here, a word there, but it's still really really easy to see the original song through the changes. Oh well.


(1What happens in German is, "They blow Mr. Fred in confusion at breakfast." I'm sure we've all had mornings like that. It seems plausible that German is the only language that results in interesting R.E.M. lyrics.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The life is greater:
it's larger than you, and you aren't me.
The lengths that I will go to,
the distance in your eyes –
oh, no, I have dictated too much of that;
I have installed it.

That one in the angle is me;
that is me in the reflector,
that loses my religion,
that tries to continue with you,
and I don't know if I can make it.
Oh, no, I have I dictated too much,
I haven't said enough.
You felt the thought that (to me) is the laughing;
thought that they have to feel to sing.
I've thought that they've seen tasks to try.

Every whisper,
awakening every hour, I am choosing confessions of mine,
that they try to maintain. An eye to you,
a hurt, lost, foolish and blinded –
Oh, no, I have said that too much;
I have installed it.

Consider this
the suggestion of the century;
consider this
the sliding that's carried me,
that has come to lack knees.
What if all these fantasies come flailing around?
Has said too much –
the thought, that is; you felt my laughing.
They have to sing, that thought is felt,
I have thought them up tasks that they have to try. I saw.

But that one was a dream, right?
That was a dream, right?

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Sisters Will be Doin' it There, for Ourselves (Eurythmics)

Language: Russian

I was going to start off by saying something about how Annie Lennox is kind of adorable, or at least used to be back in the day (haven't seen much of her lately), when it occurred to me that she and Billy Idol used to look an awful lot alike. High, short, platinum-colored hair, episodic sneer -- they were going for something very much like the same look. I think they should get together now, and do a new album: give him the lipstick and the housewife dresses, give her the studded leather jackets and the crotch-grabbing machismo. How could it fail to work?

This probably wouldn't be the song to try to do, though I'd certainly pay good money to hear Billy Idol singing this unironically. Like that cover of "Stand by Your Man" that Lyle Lovett did on the Lyle Lovett and His Large Band album.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Times were, when they was used to say
that after each "large person,"
must be a "large woman."
But in these times of change you know
that they're no longer true.
So we come from the kitchen
because we forgot to say something to you, which is: (we, we speak)

The sisters make it for ourselves,
stand on their own two feet,
and ring their own bells.
Sisters make it for themselves.

Now this song will finish celebrating
the conscious liberation of female position!
Mothers, daughters, and their daughters too.
Woman to the woman,
we sing with you.
The "inferior sex" obtained new exteriors;
we obtained doctors, lawyers, politicians too.
Each - glance all around.
You can see; can you see - can you see
the right of the woman next to you will be there.

The sisters make it for ourselves,
stand on their own two feet,
and ring their own bells.
Sisters make it for themselves.

Now we don't make stories,
and we don't place plans,
because woman still loves man,
and man still loves woman.
(Exactly the same, however)

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Insane (Gnarls Barkley)

Jessi’s Patsy Cline “Crazy” remix last month made me think of this song, and so I listened to it nonstop 7,349 times in a row rather than take the four minutes to translate it. Then I got sleepy.
But then duty roused me, although the results aren’t all that transcendent; the song is curiously impenetrable. Maybe that’s why it’s so catchy.

Of course, as with Robin Williams movies, it wouldn’t be Babelpop if we didn’t learn a little something about ourselves and what it means to be a human in the &c., &c. In this case, what I learned was that the top search for “crazy lyrics” is not Patsy Cline or Gnarls (or Aerosmith or Simple Plan or Seal or even Fine Young Cannibals), but R&B duo K-Ci & JoJo, whom I’ve never had the pleasure of ever hearing about ever before ever. Does that make me lazy?

n.b. My favorite version (until the Paris Hilton cover comes out, no doubt) of this is the first time I saw them perform on Conan, where they’re all wearing towels and they slow it way the hell down and Cee-Lo’s voice sounds like it’s about to give out any second, although the costumes worn in the MTV movie awards performance have a special place in my heart. Cee-Lo would have been so much better than Hayden Christensen! And there could have actually been chemistry between Anakin and Amidala!

You suck too, Jake Lloyd. Preparati la Bara!

-- Samantha


I remember when I remember that I remember
When I lost my spirit.
There were something so pleasant about this phase.
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space

And when you are outside there without care,
I were out of contact;
But it was not because I did not know that enough.
I just knew too much

Which returns me insane
Done, that returns me insane
Done that, probably.
Return to me, insane.

And I hope that you have the period of your life
But thinks that twice.
It is my only council

On now, which make you, which makes. You, which does you who think, you are you?
Ha ha ha, bless your heart!
You really think that you are in The Order?
Well, I thinks that you are insane.
I think. That you are insane,
I think that you are insane. Just like me.

My heroes had the heart to lose their lives outside on a member.
(And very!) That, I remember. Think that: “I want to be like them.”
Since I was small, since I was the little, of it resembled Ohio recreation.
And it is not any coincidence, which I came
And I can die when I am made.

But perhaps I am insane
Perhaps am insane for you
Perhaps am probably insane… for us.

Monday, July 10, 2006

So Much Sentiment (Whitney Houston)

Language: Greek

Sometimes I wonder about the inside of my head. Probably I'm not the only one: you may have wondered about the inside of my head as well, but I mean something more specific than that here. This song wound up meaning almost entirely different things than the original one: in this version, the singer is a photographer and artist, who develops a relationship with a man that quickly turns sexual, but she quickly finds it unsatifying and rejects him (possibly because she wants kids and he doesn't? It's not clear.). The plot gets a little muddy after that point, but at least one possible interpretation is that he moves away but continues to stalk her, and she has to threaten him with physical violence.

I don't remember this being an especially difficult song to do; there wasn't any extreme rearrangement going on, or excessive adding and subtracting of words. It all seemed to flow pretty easily. And yet: this has very little overlap with the original song. Does the new song, and its new plot, say something about where my head was at the time, or would anybody come up with something like this? (For the record, none of the above applies to my actual situation right now, at least not in any kind of conscious or literal way.) I've never really tried to go back and do the same song a second time, just to see how different it would be, so I have no idea how much leeway I actually have, and how much of what ends up in these songs is based on my own emotional state. But maybe we'll see Whitney back in a few weeks. Just as an experiment.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I have heard you beat my heart into my
photographs. I kept you apart from my bed, on the right.
In a world of imaginations, life is
from my head: I cannot take you to that.

I'm waiting for the ring. I have the telephone in the hall.
So much "good-night," because you wanna render to me the sense
of my own love. You took me,
so, shouldn't you hang up the telephone? (Take it yourself!)

(Chorus:) I remember the way that we touched upon
him. We wished that I didn't like so much,
so much sentiment, baby. I take
time where I think. To you, each
baby takes so much sentiment: I
can make love that convulses you. Who can't?
This ain't it.

I got it: be careful walking in the room, baby.
I gotta walk you outside, clock
you in the animal way. I like where you've moved to.
When you speak, you be careful: I'd move your mouth precisely.


Sunday, July 09, 2006

Theme of the Street of Sesame (Joe Raposo)

Language: Spanish

TV Theme Song Friday happens on a Sunday this time around. Maybe we should be calling it Every Eighth Day TV Theme Song.

Are there any Spanish-speakers in the audience who could explain why "Joe Raposo" gets turned into "Joe Fox," but "fox" by itself gives "Zorro?" Are there multiple words for foxes in Spanish, or is Babelfish confused?


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sunny day
that sweeps clouds far,
to where the sweet air is in my way:
can you say how I'm to obtain,
how to obtain the street of sesame?

A-OK. All the neighbors come from a friendly game, and
we satisfy it there, where it is.

Can you say how I'm to obtain,
how to obtain the street of sesame?

It is a magical stroll on the carpet;
like you happy people, in that each door will open –
wide like a beautiful happy people.

Sunny day
that sweeps clouds far,
to where the sweet air is in my way:
can you say how I'm to obtain,
how to obtain the street of sesame?
How to be to the able street of sesame
How to obtain...

Saturday, July 08, 2006

The Private Dancer (Tina Turner)

Language: Greek

Another case where I think some of the lines were actually improved by Babelfishing. Though the syllable count is all off: this version might be tougher to sing.

Speaking of strip clubs: Norah Vincent's book Self-Made Man has a great chapter on them. Plus, even though it was promoted on a trashy ABC newsmagazine that shall remain nameless, it's actually a pretty smart read. Run, don't walk.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Good: the individuals come in force,
and these individuals are all the same.
Don't you examine their persons,
and don't ask their names.
Don't think like a person;
by all means, don't think, no.
Keep your brain in. They are the money that you
keep in the wall; they are your eyes.

[chorus] I'm the private dancer,
your dancer for money.
He makes me; I'll make you what you order.
I'm your private dancer,
a dancer for the money,
and he will make any old music.

I want to make a million dollars, and
live outside, marinely. I want to
have a spouse and certain children,
I suppose. (Yes, I want a family.)
All the individuals come,
and the individuals are all the same.
Don't examine their persons, and
don't ask for their names.

[chorus two times]

Deutschmarks or dollars?
Beautiful Americans will make it explicit – thank you.
He allows me to relax above your collar;
he says, again, that he wants to make you see within the shimmy.


Friday, July 07, 2006

O, in Proportion to You (Nirvana)

Language: Russian

What the hell. There was a morbid thing happening, so we may as well turn it into a new trilogy, right? And there's not much that fits the bill better than Kurt Cobain singing about guns. The song in general wound up pretty literal, but I like what happened with the chorus.


O, in proportion to you, in proportion to who you were,
In proportion to who I want you to be.
As a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy.
Accept the time. Hurry upward, by your selection.
Don't you be the last one. Accept rest as a friend.
Old memory. (memory, memory, memory)

Arrive dowsed in proportion to mud. It's sustained by bleach.
I want you to be a tendency, in proportion to friendship.
In proportion to old memory. (memory, memory, memory)

I swear that I do not have a gun.
In no way do I have a gun, in no way.
I have a memory of a gun.

Memory, memory, the memory (don't have a gun).

I swear that I do not have a gun. In no way do I have a gun.
In no way do I have a gun. In no way do I have a gun.
In no way do I have a gun. Memory, memory...

It Needs You This Evening (INXS)

Language: French

Time for an SAT question!

What word best completes the sentence?

Depeche Mode is to religion as INXS is to __________________.

A. Australia
B. chicks
C. sex
D. Michael Hutchence

(see end of post for the answer)

Answer to question: C (sex)

All INXS songs are about sex1 in some fashion or another, with the possible single exception of "Listen Like Thieves," but as with Depeche Mode's treatment of religion, they rarely progress the song beyond "I want to have sex with you" or "you should want to have sex with me." All talk, no consummation. In fact, a surprising number of INXS songs don't even specify a gender for the object of the song ("Bitter Tears," "Disappear," "Don't Change," "Mystify," "Never Tear Us Apart," "New Sensation," "Not Enough Time," "What You Need"), instead using what I like to think of as The K. D. Lang You™. Deliberate? Closeted songwriter? The mind almost reels at the possible explanations.

If you answered B (chicks), give yourself half credit. They do try to give the impression that it's all about the chicks.


1 At least those up until Michael Hutchence died in 1997, after which I totally lost interest. What do you suppose is up with the recent morbid turn in these introductions, huh?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You're everything. You obtained
this twenty-first moment yesterday. Century of
worry: "all you can want."
It's a fact that everyone does well.

Slide here and give me one moment; thus,
your movements are believable. So when
have I made you know
each other? I have made you know that
each is another of my kind.

I need you this evening;
don't sleep. I cause. . .
something. The girl is there, among you,
who incites me to sweat.

How do you feel
to me? Am I alone?
What do you think
all cannot take?
Whatcha going to him
for? To make it go?

Thursday, July 06, 2006

The Candle in the Wind (Elton John)

Language: Spanish

My main association with this song is from an episode of the "Buffy: the Vampire Slayer" spin-off "Angel."

Harmony, a shallow and ditzy blonde girl who has become a shallow and ditzy blonde vampire, is at a karaoke bar, trying to decide on a song to sing:

Harmony: Now what do you think: "Candle in the Wind," or the Princess Diana "Candle in the Wind?"

Cordelia: Go nuts. Do 'em both.

Exactly why Elton John couldn't have just written a new song for Princess Diana, as opposed to making Marilyn share, I'm not sure. I mean, writing songs is more or less his job: he should be able to handle it. It wouldn't have had to be all that good. But I suppose famous young blonde chicks don't keel over every day, and you have to strike while the iron is hot, or something. And blurring the line between the two celebrities makes it even less about the character of the actual person who's died, and more about the feeling that someone pretty is gone and therefore you should be sad.

I dunno. In any case, the song is still slightly defective. You're pretty much limited to women, and more to the point, women who have gone from lower-middle class to upper class very rapidly. If I were Sir Elton, I'd write a sad generic eulogy that could work for anybody from Li'l Kim to Ken Lay, and then wait for the next celebrity to go. You know Dick Cheney's ticker only has just so many more beats left in it: you wouldn't have to wait long.

But then, I'm kind of a cynical bitch. I'm sure Sir Elton's motives were pure as the driven in both cases, and in no way related to maintaining his flagging celebrity in the face of impending bankruptcy.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Goodbye, Jean. Norm
never knew you, although in him, all
you had was the tolerance to maintain yourself.
Whereas those around you crawled:
they crawled on the wood crafts.
His brain whispered, and it
fixed the squirrel wheel. And that, to him,
that did change your name.

That looks like me. You lived it, your life,
as a candle in the wind
that knew never to cling. In whom,
and when, inside the system of rain?
I have wanted to know.
A young boy was only right to me:
his candle burns long.
Its legend was always made before.

The solitude was resistant:
you always played more resistant than paper.
Hollywood created a superstar,
and the pain was the price you even paid
when you died.
Oh, the press still persecuted:
the papers had to say "all
was nude to him." Were Marilyn found in that, . . .

Goodbye, Jean. Norm,
the young man in the 22nd row,
considers himself like something more sexual than that. More like, hardly of
our Marilyn Monroe than . . . .

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Conga (Miami Sound Machine)

Language: Dutch

I had intended to post "The Courtesy of Red, White and Blue Girls (Angry American)" (Toby Keith) yesterday, and in fact had the post more or less ready to go, and then my antivirus software kinda crashed my computer. I mean, that's not exactly what happened, but it's vastly more concise than what actually did happen, and in any case is the best you're going to get.

Consequently, no post yesterday, and the moment doesn't exactly feel right to post the Toby Keith now, so I'll sit on that one for a while. In the meantime: tonight, we are gonna party, up until we see the paddle!

I had a few years of Miami Sound Machine ("The Correct Machine of Miami," according to Babelfish and the Dutch) enthusiasm, which was a few years after everybody else did. I always used to have a bit of trouble with fads that way, but fortunately I'm also what is known in marketing parlance as a "slow adopter," which means that the most embarrassing stuff is on cassette and is thus unlikely to embarrass me in front of the grandkids.

And anyway, until Gloria Estefan left the Machine and went entirely easy-listening on us, I don't think she had anything to be embarrassed about. I mean, embarrassed relative to whom? Steve Winwood? Kenny Loggins? Eddie Money? Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam? They all had hits in 1986 too.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
Whom can I not check longer? You.
Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You can no longer check whom I have blamed. (have blamed)

Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You who I can no longer check, no matter which feeling has blamed the rhythm.
The music (which becomes no stronger) fights to you, of you:
it does conga beats.

Everyone collects himself, now.
Feel around your body: heat?
You don't dance, yourself.
If you can't worry, make the music late.
Your foot movement is sweet! (The island is this way.)
Rhythm, as such, is sheer, and of the sugar.
If you want to do the conga
or to listen, you must beat.

Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You who I can no longer check, no matter which feeling has blamed the rhythm.
The music (which becomes no stronger) fights to you, of you:
it does conga beats.

Have you tried to feel the fire of wishes
since you went dancing tonight?
Because tonight, we are gonna party,
up until we see the paddle.
Improve me: bring
together what you seized, and get on.
As soon as music affected your system,
you are gonna end there: no matter.

Progress; shake your body, baby; do the conga.
You who I can no longer check, no matter which feeling has blamed the rhythm.
The music (which becomes no stronger) fights to you, of you:
it does conga beats.

Your body has tried progress: shake the baby. Do the conga
no matter who checks you: I no longer can.
You haven't blamed the feeling of rhythm, which becomes a stronger music;
You have tried conga fights, to
progress. Shake your body, baby; do the conga.
I can't matter. You no longer check your feeling, which
becomes stronger: not you. Whoever blamed the rhythm of music has done it.
Conga. The baby has tried to fight your body.

Monday, July 03, 2006

Personal Jesus (Depeche Mode)

Language: Dutch

I believe it was Stan who, years ago, described Depeche Mode to me as "the group to listen to when you want to hear religious themes raised but not addressed in any meaningful way." That's not a direct quote, but that's the gist.

Probably "Blasphemous Rumours" is the best example of this, but "Personal Jesus" runs a close second, unless I'm forgetting something.

That said, I have been making an effort for a while not to draw attention to particularly odd results from Babelfish, on the grounds that it's like yelling the punchline and then telling the joke. ("Let me tell you this great joke. The punchline is, And then Mariah Carey says, 'Oh, that's okay, it's not really a dolphin, either!' But it starts out, A priest, a rabbi, and Mariah Carey are in a rowboat. . . .")1

But there's no way I can resist pointing out "You must confess things on your udder." 'Cause that's just awesome, even if it seems more like it would have been more appropriate in "Milkshake," which I did a few days ago.


1Anybody who can write a serviceable (= "funny") version of a joke that starts out, "A priest, a rabbi, and Mariah Carey are in a rowboat," should contact me immediately. You don't have to use the above punchline as your punchline. The first such joke I receive is worth $10 to the writer. No purchase necessary. Some restrictions may apply. Offer void to residents of AL, NC, ND, OK, SC, TX, and where prohibited by law. E-mail me for full contest details: send a blank e-mail with the subject line "Mariah Carey joke."

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Hear your own personal Jesus. To
someone who prayed, your someone,
your own personal Jesus
gives to hear someone pray. Your someone

who is unknown there feels
only flesh, leg, and you, all by the telephone, alone.
I will take you to a believer. Lift the recipient; make

my best test put
to the second.
You must confess
things on your udder.

I will provide;
I am your forgiver.

Range and home:
your personal Jesus.

To feel is unknown, and
you own your belief. From
range and contact, belief is
only flesh and leg. By all the telephones,
I will turn and lift the believer recipient.
With whom will I provide you? A forgiver? I
alone am into you.
From range and contact: belief.
(your own personal Jesus)
From range and contact: belief.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

White Wedding (Billy Idol)

Language: Russian

The holiday is going to be interfering with posting for a little while. I'm also having some real-life problems which are demanding some attention, so expect posts to be a bit lighter than usual during the next week or so.


Hey, small sister, they have made you
only one sister of small sisters. Hey, there will be
Superman! Hey, who will be your small sister?
Hey, one of you small sisters: he wants
the small gun sister survey! Hey!

It will be – it is! – a glorious day, which
by necessity begins again.
A day with a glorious
white wedding will be. For which the
glorious day will be, by
which it begins again, necessarily.

Hey – have you made the small sister?
Only one? Which small sister is – hey!
Therefore, I am for absent length. [therefore by length]
Therefore, I am for absent length. [therefore by length]
Length prevented you, so I go for it.

It will be by glorious day,
necessary to begin it again (further against), which
it will be with glorious day.
White for the wedding,
glorious, which it will be by day,
to begin again which is necessary.

(select it upward)

It will accept me back home.
This peace is there. In nothin' correctly,
safe peace will be in nothin', which this
will be. And in this confident peace, nothin'
will be nothin'. Purely in this peace, and
something to the left of this peace: start looking in it
They come further.

It will be glorious by day.
White for the wedding,
glorious – which it will be by day –
it is beginning again. Necessary to which
day? Will it be glorious
white for the wedding?
It will be a glorious day, by which
it is necessary to begin again.