Looking through Totally Wired, the new Reynolds book I grabbed at the library yesterday, I saw Peter Hammill's name. I was stunned and embarrassed to not remember the last time I though about Peter Hammill, much less listened to him.
Elric, who was the Van der Graaf Generator advocate that we knew? Bent Brates? I know he was Hillage, Daevid Allen.
It was a girl who turned me on to the solo stuff:
Saw shows, bought music, listened on and off over the years and then... off. He was never dear, but to forget is unlike me.
- UPDATE! Shittier than I thought.
- Here we go.
- Rahmoron, did he jump or was he pushed.
- UPDATE! Irresponsible speculation!
- Post-irony world.
- UPDATE! Please please please, I need the giggles.
- UPDATE! American Electra.
- Bobo's new boner.
- On the above.
- To plagiarize myself from comments, this post and this post demonstrate the gov't can put drugs in you to make you stop, but you can't put drugs in you to make you go.
- Question of our time.
- Re: yesterday's post - as always, thanks for the Kind. I need to chill on the unKind (which wasn't the email - that was noted for its cowardice; most of my hate mail is signed).
- Reminder: live in Maryland, don't drive and use your hand-held cell-phone starting today. They'll be looking.
- Someone bought Bromark's father one of those forks for a birthday once.
- No talk about the Nobel in the litblogs I frequent, but British bookmakers have made Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer odds-on favorite. Despite comments in 2008 from the prize's top jury member Horace Engdahl that American writing was ignorant and insular, US writers have a relatively strong chance of winning this year's Nobel, according to Ladbrokes – Philip Roth, Joyce Carol Oates and Thomas Pynchon are all at 18/1 – as do Canadian women, with Alice Munro and Margaret Atwood given the same odds to take the prize.
- Pynchon as animating spirit of McCarthy's C.
- Williams and Creeley.
- Thursday afternoon.
- Jesusfuck, The Walkman suck.
- UPDATE! You are invited.
- UPDATE! OK, now that this is in my head, fucking-A it's going to be in yours:
Is it possible that spring could be once more approaching? We forget each time what a mindless business it is, porous like sleep, adrift on the horizon, refusing to take sides, "mugwump of the final hour," lest an agenda—horrors!—be imputed to it, and the whole point of its being spring collapse like a hole dug in sand. It's breathy, though, you have to say that for it. And should further seasons coagulate into years, like spilled, dried paint, why, who's to say we weren't provident? We indeed looked out for others as though they mattered, and they, catching the spirit, came home with us, spent the night in an alcove from which their breathing could be heard clearly. But it's not over yet. Terrible incidents happen daily. That's how we get around obstacles.