Some representative blegangst that's abundant throughout Blegsylvania, and no I'm not calling anyone specific out, yo.
The duh is stale, the yodelers against duh are bored of yodeling against the duh to other bored yodelers is my yodeler's duh hunch, but I'm just a barking weathervane.
My guarantee to you: Ever ready to bark at duh, ever ready to evoke old avatars for a giggle.
- Tale of Two Blogospheres.
- The dialethic right.
- The non-existent hand.
- America the white.
- Succeeding away from ourselves.
- Darkblack's back from making ocarinas out of moose turds.
- My future hell is in the New York Times? Heh, they call it Rockville.
- More reasons to live in Maryland, not Virginia.
- Purple Line!
- A big day in Boyds!
- Where I'd have been yesterday if I could: Fulham have come from behind to beat Hamburg and qualify for the Europa League final! In Hamburg. There's jubilation all around Craven Cottage, and a tear in Roy Hodgson's eye. Tis beautiful. It's why you STAND! through the shitty seasons.
- We're all light.
- The best bad novelist? Generosity was my biggest reading disappointment in years, especially after I adored Echo Maker.
- I read Mrs Bridge thirty years ago.
- Mary Anne with the shaky hands.
- Just heard the new New Pornographers' single, and here's the song they stole the riff from.
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights and gripes
as bad as achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever: