There's an ad that's been running for about three weeks on local radio: the voice-over is in concerned emergency tone over a plaintive piano, he says, "The first time you realized clowns are kind of creepy, the first time you saw what your favorite DJ looks like, the first time you printer ran out of ink."
I heard it last evening: "The first time you saw your father try to shoot a basketball, the first time you saw what your favorite DJ looks like, the first time your printer ran out of ink."
It doesn't surprise you I notice and dwell on things like this. I turned to Earthgirl the first time I heard the original and said, That's pretty edgy for WTOP, clowns, creepy, and she said, What, I wasn't listening, so I have no witnesses.
Still, think why and how corporate let the first ad go out; daydream wistfully of the bloodletting as corporate assigned guilt and punishment; but consider mostly why corporate, to fix the fuck-up, chose to ridicule fathers rather than clowns.
O! The recital:
Planet was fine. Here's the thing:
I like D, Planet's teacher. More importantly, she loves Planet, Planet loves her.
In the late-middle of the recital, just before the older, better, pianists performed, D scheduled some nine-year old who strapped-on a harmonica and sat down at the piano and sang the single-worst song in motherfucking pop history not written by Elton Fucking John, Billy Fucking Joel's Piano Fucking Man, and the motherfucking parents, after this little turd finishes, they give this little turd a motherfucking standing ovation. Whoop! Bravo! Camera's whirling, clicking, as he bows!
Molly's next, a painfully shy and awkward fourteen-year-old, bangs out some Bach badly, rushing, trying not to cry, wanting to be anyplace else, wanting to be dead. The parents clap dutifully when she finishes.
It doesn't surprise you I said nothing to D, and won't unless she asks me, which she won't.
- When was the last time Obama had a presser?
- Things that....
- On Anarchism.
- Conceptual maps and the organization of power.
- Liberatarianism and its discontents.
- The end of the world as we know it...
- Well, these crackers are dead, but if taken alive, how many elected officials would have called for them to be stripped of their citizenship.
- What Obama said at West Point.
- Monday Morning Calumnies.
- Your Fucking Washington Post.
- Food Movement, rising....
- Greatest hits.
- MOCO: Consequences of budget.
- UPDATE! THREE! Beltways! There will never be a bridge between the Legion and Point of Rocks. !wOOt!
- One motherfucking ambitious Virginia pig.
- A Hilltop tradition:
- The university places a giant dumpster in the library parking lot near the adjacent dormitories, and students dump their junk, then poor Hispanics come and sift through the junk for salvage.
- Milan will be just as motivated as Juve.
- UPDATE! Delicious linkages.
- The rejection of closure.
- I'm just starting to read Chiasson.
- John Water's reading list.
- David Mitchell interview. I'm neither a zealot or a hater. I'll read the new one.
- Another Sunday NYTBR with nothing I want to read.
- Hobsbawn's days as a jazz critic.
- Scared song.
- Army dreamers.
- Barra barra.
- Waking the witch.
- The morning fog.
- John Cale covers LCD Soundsystem.
IT HAPPENS LIKE THIS
I was outside St. Cecelia's Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There's
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. "It's not my goat,"
I explained. "It's the town's goat. I'm just taking
my turn caring for it." "I didn't know we had a goat,"
one of them said. "I wonder when my turn is." "Soon,"
I said. "Be patient. Your time is coming." The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. "That's a mighty
fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
"It's the town's goat," I said. "His family goes back
three-hundred years with us," I said, "from the beginning."
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. "Mind if I pat him?" he asked.
"Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
"It's your decision." He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, "What's his name?" "He's
called the Prince of Peace," I said. "God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there's mystery
and wonder. And I'm just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry." "We forgive you,
Officer," I said. "And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince." The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.