Nebulous Mooch

My husband has written all the songs he needs for PatriQ Sings His Innermost Feelings. He just has to remaster the recordings before he releases it. Everyone keeps telling me that they really like the songs. “Your husband has such a great voice,” they say. “He’s so talented,” they say. But, what about me? I write songs too.

I’ve been thinking that maybe this PatriQ Sings album could be a collaboration. I’ve recorded a few songs and I’m willing to record more. I’m thinking it could be something like the Double Fantasy album. I, of course, would be John Lennon and my husband would be Yoko Ono.

Here is one of the songs I’ve already written and recorded. I was thinking it could be the track after Chicken Fat. The song isn’t the right type of file for me to put in a player, but if you click the link it should play in iTunes, Real Player or some other such program.

chicken feet

Sunday was Pioneer Day. It usually goes completely unnoticed by me, but I decided to post something in honor of it today. It’s a little late, but late is better than never.

Doves and Serpents put up a post about the hymn Come, Come Ye Saints. The authors of the blog posted their favorite versions of the hymn. That’s how I discovered this version by David Johansen and Brian Koonin of the New York Dolls. Apparently the bassist from the New York Dolls, Arthur “Killer” Kane, joined the LDS church in 1989. Someone made a documentary called New York Doll about him reuniting with the band. I haven’t seen it, but it looks fascinating. Arthur Kane died of cancer on July 13, 2004 and his band mates did a version of this song as a tribute to him. Anyway, I wanted to share it with you. Enjoy!

Here’s the final song from Patrick Sings His Innermost Feelings. It was inspired by D’Angelo’s Chicken Grease. If you don’t know the song here’s a good live version of it.

My husband has also decided that he’s going to start spelling his name like this PatriQ and wearing a pick in his hair in honor of Questlove…

Questlove

…because they have so much in common.

Anyway, this is the song. It was inspired by D’Angelo, chicken, and Simon and Garfunkel.

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Here’s an oldie but a goody that my husband recorded for his upcoming album, Patrick Sings his Innermost Feelings. He originally recorded it when my stepson was 8. It’s a song about a boy and a dog. It’s so sad that it brought a tear to my eye…twice.

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Here’s the latest addition to Patrick Sings His Innermost Feelings. It’s called Crazy Sound and it is wild. He suspects that the mix is terrible because his monitor speakers recently broke. For that he would like to apologize in advance.

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My husband has decided to write a sad song for his album Patrick Sings His Innermost Feelings. He took advantage of the low voice his recent cold gave him when recording the vocals. It’s called People are Sad. Anyway, we hope you like it. Don’t let it make you feel too sad.

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My mother says that when I was a toddler every time I got sick I’d lie in bed and ask for cheese. After about a day of eating only cheese I’d be just fine. I guess that’s why cheese holds a special place in my heart. I’m especially found of unpasteurized cheeses. My favorites these days are gruyere and some other French cheese that I don’t remember the name of. It smells kind of like old crusty feet, but it tastes really nice.

My husband is big into soft cheeses, but I don’t like those at all. I especially hate brie and reblochon. I’ve never liked brie and I got sick after eating some reblochon once. Okay, the reblochon in question had been open in the refrigerator longer than it should have been, and if I’m completely honest I have to admit that it did look a bit suspect. But, what is cheese exactly? It’s bad milk. If it’s already gone bad how can it go bad any more. That was my theory at least. Sadly, my theory was proven wrong when I promptly brought up the contents of my stomach after eating a piece of slightly questionable reblochon.

The point of all of this is that my husband wrote a song about cheese for his upcoming album. Here it is.

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Here’s another song from my husband’s upcoming album. It’s about an annoying toy that someone used to own. I won’t name any names.

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My husband just keeps turning out the songs. He corrected me about the name of his latest album project. It will be called Patrick Sings His Innermost Feelings. That’s a much better title, don’t you think? Anyway, here’s another song.

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My husband has been writing a lot of new silly songs recently. He’s considering releasing a vocal album called, Patrick Sings. His latest creation is call Khaki Pants. No, he hasn’t taken up sewing, he just likes his khaki pants so much that he feels inspired to sing about them. This morning he said, “You can put Khaki Pants on The Mooch if you want.” I was saying something else at the time that he obviously wasn’t listening to.

“I wasn’t talking about that,” I said.

“Yeah, but I’m just saying that you can put Khaki Pants online,” he said.

From that I’ve gathered that he wants me to put his newest song up on this blog. So here it is.

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Side Note #1: In the song he mentions that the pants in question have pleats, but they do not have pleats. I am opposed to pleated pants. Every pair of pants my husband has bought in my presence have not had pleats.

When I expressed my distress at this unfortunate inaccuracy in the song he told me that his other khaki pants had pleats. He is correct. His other khaki pants did have pleats, but he bought those before we were married and he left them in Germany years ago, so he shouldn’t be writing a song about them. (Was that a run on sentence? Is run on one word or two or possibly hyphenated?)

Side Note #2: I did poorly in phonics when I was in elementary school. I have some problems with spelling and pronunciation of words that my husband just loves to point out whenever possible. Anyway, I always thought khaki had an N in it. So throughout this whole post I wrote khanki instead of khaki. Then I searched online to check my spelling and I found out that in Bangladesh khanki is the bad word for lady’s parts. I just didn’t want you to make the same mistake I did.