Jeebusfuck, I'm bored. Bored with obamapologists and especially obamapostates, bored with shitty pigs and bored of hating shitty pigs. I'm bored by Zizekophiles hectoring me for my bourgeois comforts on their blackberries from their tenured offices. I'm bored with Libertarians, who are worse and, worse, far more boring. I've always been bored with Tiger Woods. I'm bored with Alton Brown. I'm bored with The Soup. I'm bored with the old, I'm bored with the young. I'm bored with work. I'm bored with bleg-everlards. I'm bored with bleggers who play zero-sum, I'm bored with bleggers who steal ideas, I'm bored with bleggers who won't acknowledge who their publisher is, their publishers' soft standards. I'm bored of chastising myself for looking at statcounter after promising myself I won't. I'm bored with sillyass Star Trek allusions:
I'm bored with novels, bored with poetry, bored with writing, bored with music. I'm bored with disc golf. I'd be bored of hiking if every weekend's weather didn't suck. I'm bored of sucky weather. I'm bored with United's off-season in anticipation of being bored this upcoming season. I'm bored with December, I'm fuckinfinity bored with Giftmas.
I'm not bored with Planet, who you can see in the top photo at the piano in a recital two hours ago this typing, but I am bored with the fucking recital when, umpteenth year in a row, a geeky ten-year-old shrieking his violin and a nine-year-old bug-torturer bludgeoning the piano render extra-suckfully Brahms' already megasuckful Hungarian Dance #5 yet again.
Everyone I meet reminds me of somebody I already know. Everything I read reminds me of something I've already read. Everything I watch reminds of something I've already seen. Every idea I hear is a reinterpretation of the already thought.
The root of my roob is I love betting against my wisdom. Nothing puts me in a vile mood faster than wisdom winning.
UPDATE! Sheeyit, that contest was over fast! Agi wins!
- So, what do you think of this?
- Old Man Broder glows himself some Obamalove.
- Thune: Gay-prOn for piGs?
- Taibbi: Dishonest Master-Ranter? Um, no.
- Last stand.
- UPDATE! On Ezra Klein's last few days at YFWP. Look, I'd like to take a shovel to Joe Lieberman's skull as much as the next guy, and I agree with much of Klein's take, but you can't say "(Lieberman) seems willing to cause the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people in order to settle an old political score," dude and survive. Had you used the phrase "ignore the deaths," you'd still be dead, but I'd have given you higher style credits.
- UPDATE! Not just an vindictive asshole, a stupid vindictive asshole.
- Zombie persistence.
- UPDATE! Hope!
- Populist rhetoric and symbolic action.
- UPDATE! Will Tony Blair eat gonads one day?
- The end of the world slouches closer.
- UPDATE! Best anti-Bobo rage ever.
- Three versions of conservatism.
- UPDATE! I'm too lazy to go find it, but sometime in the past two weeks I wondered on this bleg how long it'd be before the words Tiger Woods and Steroids would appear in the same sentence. This is close enough.
- Houston elects gay mayor?
- Remembering the Red Scare.
- Good blegfriend Jim's rcvd quite an honor.
- UPDATE! Dave Foley interview.
- Can Ehrlich beat O'Malley, part one.
- UPDATE! Battle of Humpback Bridge!
- Screw U.
- Frederick's Most-Wanted.
- UPDATE! MOCO speed cameras report has this sentence: Ironically, he lives very close to Gaithersburg's newest speed cameras, which were installed this fall along Rockville Pike near Deer Park Avenue. It's a busy road his son travels often.
- When lit blew itself to bits. I've been hinting at, if not saying, novels be dying (though I have been saying poetry is ahead of fiction in describing now), though I've blamed myself rather for not finding the new and exciting rather than crediting the lack of new and exciting: I'd prefer it to be my lack rather than fiction's. And I've never read Oscar Wao. I suppose I should, yes? More. (h/t for both)
- The absence of literature.
- The aesthetics of stupidity.
- Flannery O'Connor, again.
- Jacob follows up on the above.
- UPDATE! Montag recommends a novel new to me, saying "it presents a misanthropy that you (read I) don’t have to be ashamed to embrace." Good thing I've got access to Washington Regional Library Consortium collection.
- Stoner, again.
- Vendler reviews latest Ashbery.
- Another review of the latest Ashbery.
- Nick Cave, misogynist, continued, has this line: Cave's abjection was most powerful not when he took on the role of high Romantic Outsider or a swaggering Staggerlee, but when he came out as a pathetic fantasist, the anti-cool figure of fun (this persona, and Cave's whimpers and gibberings, owing a great deal to Pere Ubu's David Thomas; I'm tempted to venture the hypothesis that Cave's music weakens to the degree that the Thomas influence is exorcised. I hadn't thought of the connection, though it seems to me David Thomas is David Thomas and Nick Cave is playing a character named Nick Cave.
- Updated list of anticipated 2010 albums includes New Pornographers, Serena-Maneesh, The Wrens, and a new Gabriel album of covers.
- Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever.
- Here's a Best of Year to spend a couple of hours listening to.
- Here's the always incredibly generous Largehearted Boys.
- The Wrens?
- Darkblack's Sunday Overnight.
UPDATE! Just put in my head, be in yours:
- Tom Waits never struck my tuning fork, but he has lots of folks, and if one of them is you, this will ping.
- Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever.
- New Futureheads!
- New Shearwater! (h/t this and last)
- I suggest bookmarking this is offset.
They don't want to stop. They can't stop.
They've been going at it for days now,
for hours, for months, for years. He's on top
of her. She's on top of him. He's licking
her between the legs. Her fingers
are in his mouth. It's November.
It's March. It's July and there are palms.
Palms and humidity. It's the same man.
It's a different man. It's August and slabs
of heat waves wallow on tarred lots.
Tornadoes sprawl across open plains.
Temperatures rise. Rains accumulate.
Somewhere a thunderstorm dies. Somewhere
a snow falls, colored by the red dust
of a desert. She spreads her legs. His lips
suck her nipples. She smells his neck.
It's morning. It's night. It's noon.
It's this year. It's last year. It's 4 a.m.
It started when the city shifted growth
to the north, over the underground
water supply. Now the back roads are gone
where they would drive, the deer glaring into
the headlights, Wetmore and Thousand Oaks,
and the ranch roads that led to the hill country
and to a trio of deep moving rivers.
There were low water crossings. Flood gauges.
Signs for falling rock. There were deer blinds
for sale. The was cedar in the air.
Here hands are on his hips. He's pushing
her up and down. There are so many things
she's forgotten. The names of trees. Wars.
Recipes. The trench graves filled with hundreds.
Was it Bolivia? Argentina? Chile?
Was it white gladioli that decorated the altar
were wedding vows were said? There was
a dance floor. Tejano classics.
A motel. A shattered mirror. Flies.
A Sunbelt sixteen wheeler. Dairy Queens.
Gas stations. The smell of piss and cement.
There was a field of corn, or was it cotton?
There were yellow trains and silver silos.
They can't stop. They don't want to stop.
It's Spring, and five billion inhale
and exhale across two hemispheres. Oceans
form currents and counter-currents.
There was grassland. There was sugar cane.
There were oxen. Metallic ores.
There was Timber. Fur-bearing animals.
Rice lands. Industry. Tundra. Winds
cool the earth's surface. Thighs press
against thighs. Levels of water fluctuate.
And yesterday a lightning bolt reached
a temperature hotter than the sun.
Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever, stuck in my head by a certain name appearing in comments recently: