Patience is an album by George Michael. Patience is a great title for an album. Patience and albums just seem to go together like chocolate and peanut butter.
Or so Mr Clay Freakin' Aiken would have me believe, right?
I've been absent from the Clay world for a considerable time, as nothing was really going on in it since I was blessed enough to see the JNT II. Besides, I had two attend two funerals (one for a relative, and one for the car I mentioned a couple of blog entries ago. I TOLD y'all I would run that thing into the ground, and into the ground it went). I also had Christmas to deal with, which sucked horribly, and then my company was sold and they switched all my procedures around so I had to learn new procedures after nine years of performing the old ones, which sucked tremendously, and then my heat pump died in the middle of the winter and replacing it was a giant expensive pain, which sucked exponentially. And damn, that was a long sentence.
Anyway, I haven't posted in a long time. I would check in every so often and do some reading and catch up on what was happening (a big fat NOTHING) and I'd whine a bit about Clay's apparent lack of consideration in depriving me of new Clack to play all day every day and then I'd disappear for a while. And damn, these sentences are just getting longer, aren't they?
So while I was gone, I didn't really miss anything of consequence. I heard that Son of MOAM was due out for Spring of 2006. And then it wasn't.
Next, the album was slated for a May release. Until it wasn't.
And then, when I was lurking about a month ago, all the little fangirlies were all a-flutter with the news of a June release. Which? Is not going to happen.
Because today, when I checked in and did some reading, I found out the album is now going to be dropping sometime in September.
Yeah, you heard me, Sep-@$#%ing-tember.
$@#* °!^& +²"? and a whole buncha more expletive-type words!
Clay, my dear, this is evillll. You can't keep bringing me so close to the edge and then abandoning me. This is called a very special kind of teasing, but to keep things nice and family friendly, we'll call it clockteasing. Because Cl+crack=clack, and cl+luck=cluck, and, well, you get the idea, I'm pretty darn sure.
Allow me to make some really bad analogies. Imagine a child who really wants a bicycle. You tell that innocent little child that bicycles are very special presents and that they are only given on an occasion like a birthday or Christmas. So that little child waits eagerly for the birthday. But then the car breaks down, and has to be fixed, and you can't afford to buy that bicycle, so you tell the child to wait and see what the Easter Bunny brings. But the Easter Bunny strains his back at work and can't possibly lift a bicycle into the car, so you tell the child to wait and ask Santa. And that child knows that Santa isn't coming for practically a whole year and starts to despair that the bicycle will never be received.
You want another analogy? Okay, here's one for you. Imagine, my dear Mr. Clay Freakin' Aiken, that you are dying for a real, honest-to-goodness genuine authentic Italian cannoli. Imagine that your father is going to New York and promises to bring you back a whole box of the delectable pastries from your absolute favorite bakery in the entire nothern hemisphere. Imagine then that your father calls you and says that the bakery is closed, but he is going to the second-best bakery in the entire northern hemisphere to get those cannolis. And then he calls you again to say that his car got a flat and he has to get it repaired. And then he calls back and says the flat is repaired and he'll drop by the bakery on the way home, after he's done visiting the relatives. And then he calls and says he's home and you go over for a visit and ask how much you owe for the cannolis, and he says "$@!+, I knew I forgot to do something!".
Clooooooockteasing.
How 'bout another one? Imagine you're the governor of Pennsylvania, except with less of an oily sheen and without the distinction of having destroyed the city of Brotherly Love. You make a campaign promise (snort, yeah, I know) to cut property taxes. All the people in Pennsylvania shout "Rejoice in the Lord, for the meek shall leave something for their children to inherit!" and there is dancing in the streets and impromptu gleeful shouts at the Bingo matches in the fire halls and general happiness that the profits from gambling will do something in Pennsylvania besides give old geezers free taxi rides. And imagine also that I learned how to use a period, because whew!, that sentence was longer than the line I stood in to see Goblet of Fire.
And I have once again lost my point. Wait a minute...yeah, you're the governor of Pennsylvania. Now imagine you get yourself elected and you say you WILL make good on that campaign promise to cut property taxes statewide. And the unwashed masses fling their arms to Heaven and shout "Blessed be the Lord, for I shall not have to wait for my income tax refund to get that plasma TV!" And small children play with extra vigor and people smile at complete strangers and lions and lambs lay down together.
Imagine you send out a mailing to every property owner to sign up for Act 72 that categorically confirms that property taxes WILL be reduced. And the Commonwealth shouts to the sky "Ring out your praise to the Lord, for we shall buy a new car at special GM employee pricing!" And ancient withered widows subsisting on World War II pensions throw keg parties, and the dumb speak, the the deaf hear, and the blind see, and the lame walk. And I really wish I wasn't bang in the middle of my 28-day cycle because this paragraph could use a period or two!
Imagine that millions of deliriously joyful homeowners get mail confirmation that their applications to Act 72 have been received. And the public proclaims "Shout to the Lord all the Earth, for Lawn Doctor needs to get medieval on this bare patch of dirt that hasn't seen a sprinkler in three years because of drought conditions!" And Captain Ahab sees her blow and says odd words like "thar", and the Virgin Mary miraculously appears in a pattern of blades of grass on those bare patches of dirt (and also shows up on a piece of French toast that an enterprising neighbor of mine put on eBay for $100,000) and people walk on water (what? The Susquehanna river has a bunch of big rocks, y'all. They just walked from one rock to the next.) and money falls from the sky and cats hug dogs and offer mice their cozy territory in front of the east windows with all that sun. And PERIOD. PERIOD. I'd sell my soul to get a period in this paragraph!
And then imagine that the Pennsylvania legislature gave itself an illegal pay raise and then imagine that the ugly details of Act 72 come out and the homeowners find out that a threshold of earnings must be generated for the state before they'll see one stinking penny, and the imagine that the ultra-conservatives that overrun this Commonwealth make a giant fuss about the moral, economic, and logistical difficulties Act 72 would create. (Come on, like Pennsylvania's gamblers aren't hopping buses to Atlantic City anyway?!)
And then imagine how those poor downtrodden people feel when the whole prospect of less property taxes dissipates like flatulence in a stadium.
It's clockteasing. Clock.tea.sing. And it stinks as bad as that stadium poot.
Now imagine you're me, a loyal Clay fan from "Take time to tell me". A loyal fan who has purchased every single album and CD single and DVD and calendar and concert ticket and t-shirt and chintzy flashlight to wave at the Birthday Show on the JNT II. Imagine Clay just told you (me) that it's going to be nearly two years since the last album before that gratification stops being delayed. How would you feel?
Well, I'll tell you how I feel.
I want my bicycle! I want my cannolis! I want my special GM employee pricing! I want my MTV! (Oops, got carried away there. Damn those Dire Straits, anyway!)
I WANT MY SON OF MOAM!!!!!
And I also want $100,000. But of course, the Blessed Virgin didn't appear on MY breakfast food. Darnit!
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