The Dynamic Upsetters - Try Me /Make Myself Clear

I slept nearly 8½ hours last night, which feels medically suspicious. My body is clearly trying to send me a memo titled “Sit Down, Fool, your work is taking a toll.” And despite all that sleep, I still woke up feeling like I’d been lightly run over by a mid‑sized sedan. Cooper didn’t get his morning walk, which means he spent the early hours pacing around like a disappointed personal trainer who can’t believe his client skipped leg day.

It’s been another long, long week of work — the kind of week where you start fantasizing about taking a full seven days off just to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling until your brain reboots. I need rest. I need recuperation. I need to be gently placed in a hammock and left there until further notice.

Yesterday was Princess Pussface’s vet day, which she took about as well as you’d expect from a cat who believes any enclosed space is a government conspiracy. The last time she went, the vet staff declared her “a regular Tasmanian Devil,” which surprised me because she is, in fact, the sweetest creature alive and Cooper’s ride‑or‑die bestie. But sure, call her feral. Whatever.

So I put her in the crate, and she gave me this tragic, Victorian‑child‑in‑an‑orphanage look, like I was escorting her to the gallows. I tried to reassure her, but she was fully committed to her role as “Wronged Heroine in a Period Drama.”

Thankfully, the vet met with me instead of doing the drop‑off routine. He said the odds of her having FIP like Tazzie were astronomically low — in all his years he’s only seen three cases. He was convinced it was allergies and honestly couldn’t believe this calm, polite little fluff was the same cat who tried to reenact Mad Max: Fury Road in his office earlier this summer.

She got a shot, I got meds to give her, and we went home. She was happy. The whole house was happy. And yes — keep the prayers up for her quick recovery. Princess Pussface deserves only the best.

Now, onto the Friday Soul Post: North Carolina Modern Soul, that sits well with my morning coffee. When you find records like these, you don’t ask questions. You just hand over the money and accept your fate like a responsible adult with questionable impulse control.

Julie London - Yummy, Yummy, Yummy/Come To Me Slowly

So apparently my “day off” heard the words day off and responded, “Cute. Anyway…”

First up: the washer. A technician finally peeked inside and declared, with the confidence of a man diagnosing a spaceship, that the motherboard has gone rogue. One bad component. One. Singular. And now I get to play the thrilling game of Guess How Long This Will Take To Fix, a game with no rules, no timeline, and no prizes.

Then came the roof contractor, who arrived to give me an estimate while I stood there like a man auditioning for the role of Responsible Adult #3 in a low‑budget sitcom. Add in my domestic hubby duties and suddenly I’m basically a one‑man HGTV episode.

Princess did not visit the vet yesterday as he was offs. She’ll be dropped off this morning, hopefully without reenacting the Tazzie tear fest- we can't take any more loss. Her symptoms don’t seem quite as dramatic, but if meds are needed, Chewy has become my new discount pet pharmacy overlord. Still expensive, but at least it doesn’t require selling a kidney.

The request for Louie Louie by Julie London sent my mind spiraling straight into the memory vault. The first time I heard Julie doing Louie Louie — mind blown. Not metaphorically. I mean actual brain confetti.

And where did this life‑altering moment occur? An elevator. An elevator.

I bought it the same day I picked up Yummy Yummy Yummy, which means my brain was double‑detonated in one afternoon. I’ve even got a German import of the Yummy Yummy LP sitting around like a neglected treasure chest. I really need to pull that out again and give it a spin.

I still wonder what Julie thought when someone handed her that track list. Probably something like: “Wait… you want me to sing what now?”

updated Louie Louie

 https://poppacool.blogspot.com/2010/10/julie-london-louie-louie.html

John Day - You're A Big Boy Now/New World In The Morning

I warned everyone: no suggestions means I might go rogue. And here we are — though honestly, this isn’t even weird by my standards. I stumbled across this locally released 70s album, complete with an autograph, which feels like finding buried treasure if the treasure also smells faintly of attic insulation. It’s packed with some surprisingly cool cover versions, and I pulled out two: a John Sebastian tune and Roger Whittaker’s New World in the Morning.

Now, confession time — the kind whispered behind a hand like you’re telling state secrets. Growing up, my parents liked Roger Whittaker. And I’ll admit it: New World in the Morning hits me right in the nostalgia. It’s one of those songs that sneaks up on you, taps you on the shoulder, and suddenly you’re eight years old again, sitting in a living room where the furniture was somehow both brown and orange. John’s version on this album? I really like it. It’s got that warm, lived‑in feel, like someone singing from the porch at sunrise.

Meanwhile, today is shaping up to be a three‑ring circus. The washing machine repairman is supposed to show up — Monday was a bust because his truck broke down, which feels metaphorically on‑brand for my life lately. I’ve also got a guy coming to look at the roof, because apparently the house has decided it wants attention too. And then there’s Princess… she’s acting odd, and I need to call the vet. Please send her all the good thoughts, prayers, cosmic vibrations, whatever you’ve got. We cannot take another loss. Not now. Not again.

Some days the music is the only thing that feels steady. Today might be one of those days.

 

Split Enz- Six Months In A Leaky Boat

An extremely true story, unfortunately. So, Friday night, I’m just minding my business, vibing, probably thinking about 45s or soul records, starting to wash dishes when suddenly it feels like the kitchen sink is acting like it’s on strike. Water pressure? Barely a suggestion. My brain immediately sprints to the worst‑case scenario like its training for the Plumbing Olympics.

Then Saturday morning, the shower joins the rebellion. The water pressure is low, and my mind goes, “Ah yes… the darkness. My old friend. Could it be the Leaky Boat Era returns.”

But no. No, dude. The universe had something far sillier planned.  I stroll into the backyard, ready to grab something from the shed, and instead I discover: THE GREAT INLAND SEA OF NORTH CAROLINA. My backyard has become a fully operational lake. Ducks could move in. Fishermen could apply for permits. Zillow might list it as “waterfront property.”

And I’m standing there like: “Okay… it rained last night… but it didn’t Noah’s Ark rain.” Then I see it. The hose. On. Still. Since Thursday. My wife watered her plants, didn’t turn off the hose and accidentally created a new ecosystem. A biome. A freshwater habitat. A national park. A place where Cooper can finally pursue his dream of becoming a swamp explorer.

Being the supportive husband that I am, I decide to lighten the mood by naming the lake after her — a bold choice, a brave choice, a choice that was met with the exact level of enthusiasm one would expect: none.

And now I await next month’s water bill like it’s a horror movie villain slowly approaching from behind. But hey — at least it wasn’t a real leak. At least, I’m not spending six months in a leaky boat when I want to go to the shed. At least the only thing sinking is my bank account.

The Rockin' Aces - Thunder / Evil

Yesterday was one of those days where I transformed into a one‑person domestic circus. I was straightening up like a caffeinated Generation X ( and I don't mean the Billy Idol kind), recording songs like I was auditioning for a gospel revival, updating the record database with the seriousness of a librarian who’s seen some things, and then hauling Cooper to Tractor Supply for his scrub a dub dub day and even my wifie helped with that endeavor. He strutted out of there like he owned stock in the company.

And now—boom—Monday. Back to work. Back to pretending I’m a functioning adult. And if the appliance vibrations of the earth decide to align, maybe the washing machine will finally be repaired. If not, I foresee myself stomping into the laundromat at dawn like a mythological creature fueled entirely by rage and washing machine pods. That evil machine has been testing my spirit.

I overslept, which I’m choosing to interpret as “my body needed it” instead of “I’m falling apart like a thrift‑store recliner.” Cooper didn’t get his walk, so he gave me that look dogs give when they’re disappointed but also plotting to knock something off a table later.

Then came the shower. I tried to be present, letting the hot water hit me like a tiny spa moment, when suddenly my brain screamed, “WHERE IS THE WASHING MACHINE RECEIPT?!” Full thunder panic. The kind where your soul briefly leaves your body to check the junk drawer. Miraculously, I found it in two minutes. Two. Minutes. I should get a medal or at least a parade with one float.

And yes, I absolutely saw my own cleverness using song titles in the post. I basically winked at myself. I must think I’m adorable or something.

El Dorados - Tears On My Pillow/A Rose For My Darling

I could’ve used a gospel 45 this morning — really could’ve strutted in with some sanctified reverb — but nope. Not a single one ready. My gospel bench is emptier than the McDonald’s promise of “order ahead for convenience,” which, by the way, they spectacularly failed at yesterday. I tried to get a sandwich with the app, they couldn’t get it right, and I took that as the universe tapping me on the shoulder saying, “Hey… buddy… you don’t need a sodium‑brick disguised as breakfast.”

So I drove off, slightly hungry, slightly smug, and went to pick up Tazzie’s urn from the vet — which was its own emotional weather system — and then, because my life is a collage, I hit an estate sale. Naturally, I met someone who wants to call me about her records. Because of course I did. I can’t go anywhere without accidentally networking like a man who smells faintly of 45 RPM destiny.

Then I got home, looked around, realized I had zero gospel ready, and immediately judged myself. I should’ve recorded at least one. I used to be so good — had ideas lined up a month at a time like a responsible adult who knows what he’s doing. Now I’m winging it like a possum who found a flashlight.

Busy day today, but maybe I can squeeze in a few recordings. Wednesday’s wide open, so maybe I’ll actually get my act together then. Maybe.

And as always — I’ll throw this out there again — any requests? Now’s the moment to speak up and say, “Hey how about some more Herman’s Hermits,” or “Hit me with some Dave Clark Five,” or “Do you have (insert obscure group here that only three people on Earth remember)?”

Otherwise it’s up to me… and you know what happens when it’s up to me. I might go down some weird direction that makes you pull out your hair and run screaming into the night like you just witnessed the Exorcist.

So what do you do on a Sunday morning with no gospel 45s ready? Easy — doo‑wop R&B and a Vee Jay promo. I always pick up obscure Vee Jay stuff, and finding a promo feels like winning a tiny lottery only record nerds understand. Someday maybe I’ll luck into a Beatles Vee Jay promo to go with my two Capitol “real” Beatles promos. A man can dream. And I do. Loudly.

The Stillroven – Little Picture Playhouse/Cast The Burden Upon The Stone

I woke up feeling like my body spent the night doing community theater instead of sleeping — lots of dramatic tossing, zero actual rest. Cooper and I took a short walk because the sky is apparently planning a water‑based assault, and then I took one of those unsatisfying showers where the water hits you like, “I’m doing my best,” and you’re like, “No you’re not.”

Now I’m sitting here, slowly sipping coffee like it’s a fragile emotional support beverage, staring at the day and wondering what heroic nonsense I’m going to accomplish. Eventually I realized I should probably just close my eyes, breathe deeply, and thank God for the day — because the week was long, the work was real, and somehow I still made it through without spontaneously combusting.

And then… ah yes… Saturday record hunting, the sacred ritual. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve done the full‑tilt vinyl safari instead of the “do laundry, hit two yard sales, call it a day” version. As much as I would love to, it won't happen today. But the mail did bring offerings — offerings packaged by people who apparently think records are made of flexible hopes and dreams instead of fragile cardboard and grooves.

One seller packed 12" singles in a box too small for physics, diagonally, like he was trying to smuggle them across the border in a geometry puzzle. Naturally the box arrived crushed, corners bent, and my soul briefly left my body. He’s sending a partial refund, but he has absolutely lost a customer. If that’s how he treats the vinyls — (ha ha, I tossed that in purely to antagonize the record‑collecting purists, and have a least one of you start vibrating like a tuning fork possessed by a mischievous ghost by my casually calling them the vinyls, as if I’ve committed a war crime against analog media)

But hey, small victories: the records weren’t completely obliterated, and that’s worth celebrating. So let’s enjoy a garage rarity by the Stillroven — or as Word autocorrect tried to rename them, Still Oven, which honestly sounds like a band that only plays songs about casseroles and emotional burnout.

This one came courtesy of my friend Jesse, who I really should text soon because we haven’t chatted much lately. And nothing says “I’m thinking of you” like sending someone a link to a band called Still Oven.