Snippets from the mind of an American hero. Random observations about life, love, fishing, dementia, music, sports, and yodeling. General strangeness. Intellectual badassery.
Pedro lives out of the Wilshire Hotel
he looks out a window without glass
The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet
His father beats him ’cause he’s too tired to beg
He’s got 9 brothers and sisters
They’re brought up on their knees
It’s hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs
Pedro dreams of being older and killing the old man
But that’s a slim chance he’s going to the boulevard
He’s going to end up, on the dirty boulevard
He’s going out, to the dirty boulevard
He’s going down, to the dirty boulevard
This room cost 2,000 dollars a month
You can believe it man it’s true
Somewhere a landlord’s laughing till he wets his pants
No one here dreams of being a doctor or a lawyer or anything
They dream of dealing on the dirty boulevard
Give me your hungry, your tired your poor, I’ll piss on ’em
That’s what the Statue of Bigotry says
Give me your hungry, your tired your poor, I’ll piss on ’em
That’s what the Statue of Bigotry says
Your poor huddled masses, let’s club ’em to death
and get it over with and just dump ’em on the boulevard
Get to end up, on the dirty boulevard
going out, to the dirty boulevard
He’s going down, on the dirty boulevard
going out
Outside it’s a bright night
There’s an opera at Lincoln Center
Movie stars arrive by limousine
The klieg lights shoot up over the skyline of Manhattan
But the lights are out on the mean streets
A small kid stands by the Lincoln Tunnel
He’s selling plastic roses for a buck
The traffic’s backed up to 39th street
The TV whores are calling the cops out for a suck
And back at the Wilshire, Pedro sits there dreaming
He’s found a book on magic in a garbage can
He looks at the pictures and stares at the cracked ceiling
“At the count of 3” he says, “I hope I can disappear”
And fly fly away, from this dirty boulevard
I want to fly, from dirty boulevard
I want to fly, from dirty boulevard
I want to fly-fly-fly-fly, from dirty boulevard
I want to fly away
I want to fly
Fly, fly away
I want to fly
Fly-fly away (Fly a-)
fly-fly-fly (-way, ooohhh…)
Fly-fly away (I want to fly-fly away)
fly away (I want to fly, wow-woh, no, fly away)
Today, my humanist underpinnings have brought to mind Lou Reed’s Dirty Boulevard—a track that takes a brutal look at the dichotomy between the lives of the rich and the lives of the poor.
Reed was known for his incisive lyrics and his unflagging opinions. The lyrics for Dirty Boulevard aren’t for the easily offended, although that’s exactly who Reed was trying to reach since the easily offended are often the ones most blinded to the plight of the poor.
Despite all of that, the crunchy guitar chords and Reed’s smartass growl make for a foot-tapping good time (again, a play on the divergence of life between the rich and the poor).
(Interestingly, this is one of the tracks that Reed played with David Bowie at David Bowie’s 50th birthday celebration in 1997.)
