Duh. Meanwhile, I'm told in comments of a friend's bleg that I need a bullet between the eyes, and BWRT! dumbfvck, you flunk originality. (The same troll condemned another blegfriend to six months in a prison mental institution, meaning I WIN!)
I fixate on blegoscopies because blegs document the inflation and collapse of a nothing so universal they're analogous to and metaphor for the white, black, and red noises we pretend we control knowing they control us. The more we all know about everyone all the time the less we remember anything about anyone at all. Best be Kind to the few who scratch your skritch.
My constant blegoscopies are a second obsession only to posting Planet's Fleabus photos
(and as a bonus, have you seen Planet's ceramic art?)
because I believe nothing would enrich my life more than never blegging again.
!hEh! like that's gonna happen. I'd just as soon rearrange my blegrell than try to convince myself I'm not a weathervane.
- Unreality Check.
- Anonymity on Teh Internet.
- Sotomayer questioned by 1977 Kansas City Royals.
- Librarians.
- Increase your bleg hits - post a photo of Dandon Lonovan's ifeway.
- (h/t)
- Look who's back! At least for a cameo.
- Hey, we eat here all the time. It's where Three Little Pigs used to be. If you get that reference, you're an old mocomofo.
UPDATE! Szetela? 'K/w me.
UPDATE! SHAZAM!
UPDATE! I'm on record saying holding mid is a problem; I've said Andrew Jacobson has failed auditions (regardless his header last week v Harrisburg), so this is a potentially terrific acquisition if the PR spout out of Szetela's mouth is true, the part about recognizing his prime earning years are endangered (I paraphrase), not the part about coming back because of a chance he might end up with United.
He was once considered all that. If he's a motivated 4/5th of all that, this is an significant upgrade.
- You don't see fortune-telling businesses in Moco.
- Found looking for something else:
Only read Salterton once (read Deptford five, ten times? Cornish two, three time?), does anyone read Robertson Davies anymore? I remember when I was introduced to him in the late 70s, in the group of poseurs I wanted to join, reading Davies was a sign of sophisticated literacy. That the novels happened to be good was a bonus.
- Charles Wright.
- Increase your bleg hits - link to an Onion article on ballpark cuck-fams.
- UPDATE! August 4.
- Today's Listening Assignment.
- Today's Listening Assignment.
- Today's Listening Assignment.
- Today's Listening Assignment.
Updates later. Or not.
Found and remembered this looking for something else:
THE STEEPLEJACK
Marianne Moore
Dürer would have seen a reason for living One by one in two's and three's, the seagulls keep a sea the purple of the peacock's neck is whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt trees are favored by the fog so that you have cat-tails, flags, blueberries and spiderwort, is not right for the banyan, frangipani, or with white pin-dots on black horizontal spaced- at sea progress white and rigid as if in spire, not true, from which a man in scarlet lets Danger. The church portico has four fluted senators by not thinking about them. The It could not be dangerous to be living
in a town like this, with eight stranded whales
to look at; with the sweet sea air coming into your house
on a fine day, from water etched
with waves as formal as the scales
on a fish.
flying back and forth over the town clock,
or sailing around the lighthouse without moving their wings --
rising steadily with a slight
quiver of the body -- or flock
mewing where
paled to greenish azure as Dürer changed
the pine green of the Tyrol to peacock blue and guinea
gray. You can see a twenty-five-
pound lobster; and fish nets arranged
to dry. The
marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the
star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so
much confusion. Disguised by what
might seem the opposite, the sea-
side flowers and
the tropics first hand: the trumpet-vine,
fox-glove, giant snap-dragon, a salpiglossis that has
spots and stripes; morning-glories, gourds,
or moon-vines trained on fishing-twine
at the back door;
striped grass, lichens, sunflowers, asters, daisies --
yellow and crab-claw ragged sailors with green bracts -- toad-plant,
petunias, ferns; pink lilies, blue
ones, tigers; poppies; black sweet-peas.
The climate
jack-fruit trees; or for exotic serpent
life. Ring lizard and snake-skin for the foot, if you see fit;
but here they've cats, not cobras, to
keep down the rats. The diffident
little newt
out bands lives here; yet there is nothing that
ambition can buy or take away. The college student
named Ambrose sits on the hillside
with his not-native books and hat
and sees boats
a groove. Liking an elegance of which
the sourch is not bravado, he knows by heart the antique
sugar-bowl shaped summer-house of
interlacing slats, and the pitch
of the church
down a rope as a spider spins a thread;
he might be part of a novel, but on the sidewalk a
sign says C. J. Poole, Steeple Jack,
in black and white; and one in red
and white says
columns, each a single piece of stone, made
modester by white-wash. Theis would be a fit haven for
waifs, children, animals, prisoners,
and presidents who have repaid
sin-driven
place has a school-house, a post-office in a
store, fish-houses, hen-houses, a three-masted schooner on
the stocks. The hero, the student,
the steeple-jack, each in his way,
is at home.
in a town like this, of simple people,
who have a steeple-jack placing danger signs by the church
while he is gilding the solid-
pointed star, which on a steeple
stands for hope.
Mmwahagain









