Van The Man Drunken Misogynist

I had Van Morrison’s song “Moondance” going through my head all day (I must have picked it up at the grocery store or in an elevator – I don’t want my hipster-alt-indie-post-apocalyptic-euro-hip-hop street cred sullied by the thought that I was listening to some oldies station driving to work. Shit, ain’t no sounds prog enough for the Grey Ghost anyhow, so she ain’t even got no tunes. Ummm … that and the wiring’s all messed up, so the stereo doesn’t work).

Well, I started thinking about the lyrics a bit:

“Well, I wanna make love to you tonight,
I can’t wait ‘til the morning has come …”

I’m thinking that Morrison must have had some significant other who was averse to sexual relations in the evening. Certainly, a reasonable interpretation of those lines is that the object of his amorous overtures preferred breakfast to dinner, so to speak. And while I’m all about smellin’ the flower no matter the hour, a consistent behavioral pattern like this (consistent enough that he put it in a song!) just seems … well, a bit odd. Odd enough that we Gladys Kravitz types want to know why.

My assumption is that he, being Irish*, is a hard-drinking man, and would often regularly always come home stumbling drunk; a drunkeness borne of an unholy trinity of cheap Irish whisky, stale Guinness, and whatever dregs he could squeeze out of the bar towels down at the Slaughtered Lamb, a drunkeness so vile that even the lepers and one-legged prostitutes in the alleys of Belfast would turn away as he staggered home, not wanting to risk a glimpse of his repulsive visage, nor ponder the gruesome horrors that doubtless took place when he eventually found the way to his door, and finally to his bed.

My god, it’s unimaginable what that woman must have gone through. I mean, I’d want to wait ‘til the morning had come as well.

An extensive search through Interpol’s criminal database reveals no intoxication-related or battery arrests, so maybe Morrison has been able to keep his vices in check. I sincerely hope so. Still, he’s responsible for the phenomenon in which groups of 50+ year old ex-yuppies hopped up on chardonnay suddenly burst into song during the sha-la-la part of “Brown Eyed Girl,” and I’m not sure that even “Into The Mystic” quite makes up for that.

[Update:] Meddling asshat Critical Reader HW sends this:

Dead Acorn: It’s well known that you’ve enjoyed a dram or two in your day; further, you once penned, in a song bemoaning a condition causing painful coitus, the following lyrics:

Sex hurts, sex hurts, I’m a dyspareunic …
Sex hurts, sex hurts, I wish I was a eunuch …

I find it a bit hypocritical of you to criticize another based on unfounded assumptions about their (ab)use of alcohol and their alleged sexual tendencies.

Needless to say, reader HW’s email address has been blocked.

* Nothing against the Irish, of course. I mean, hey, some of my best friends are Irish! And I love Lucky Charms!