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August 20, 2008

There's Too Much Lime in the World and Not enough gin, they gasp. The Gentle are Curious, but the curious are not gentle*

I deal with copyright/intellectual property neurotics as part of my day job. They're correct to be neurotic as they are dealing with intellectual property owners who must know in their brain stems that they've lost but won't recognize in their frontal lobes they've lost. They're fighting with the litigious zeal of the desperate. Set aside their justified moral position - artists, writers, creators deserve the profit of their invention - they've lost. They've lost, and no other business model can be conceived until they recognize the one that's lost is obsolete.

America's declining. Argue amongst yourselves whether America as CEO and War-King was a good-bad or bad-good thing, but America as supreme decider is dying and terminal, no matter how many wars America's brave dick-swingers start, no matter how many shitty decades unapologetic militarism delays the body's death.

Lordy, I'm a doorstop, a grim triangular black hard-rubber doorstop wedged under a bedroom door in my grandmother's house in Fellsburg Pennsylvania to keep my cousins out so I can read in peace, that doesn't work.

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*Frank O'Hara, who's newly repackaged Selected Poems wondrously dropped free into my hands.

FOR GRACE, AFTER A PARTY

    You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't
interest
    me, it was love for you that set me
afire,
    and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
                                        writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn't there
        an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn't
                            you like the eggs a little
different today?
                            And when they arrive they
are just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

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In my head. Be in yours.

When You Were Young

The original 930 on F St  - surrounded by all the stores selling Doc Johnson products - when we were young? Remember this?

August 19, 2008

Hood On Your Blands

Russia-Georgia gives McCain a bounce in the polls? Here's a question: How many innocent lives will be saved in October if McCain is ten points up instead of Obama?

Hah! a rhetorical question. Missiles will be flying - American and/or a proxy's - come October, the number calculated to the level of belligerence necessary to ensure Republican victory. Fewer die if McCain is winning, more die if Obama's winning. Is it complicity to goad Bushco/GOP, who view the military as a propaganda organ AND private security force, to gin up violence against innocent civilians to maintain power?

Some yes but more no, but no only if you understand that if Obama wins despite, the lesson won't be lost, though supposing Obama needs to be taught that lesson is ruby.

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Updates later. Or not.

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Former lover Jill St John is SIXTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD TODAY:


I was only twelve at the time, mind.

So distraught that I dumped her, she dated Henry Kissinger in self-lacerating despair.

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In my head. Be in yours.

August 18, 2008

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRG

United went to Chicago and beat Chicago using Chicago's ugly disgusting bullying tactics and I sang hallelujah. I'm asked, how do I separate my politics and my soccer and I say, huh?

Obama is suckbucketful. McCain is calling him (and by extension anyone who supports Obama) a traitor as I type this sentence. I expect Obama's nuanced response promptly.

Fleabus?

Fellow Crackerstanis, I knew Obama need avoid Angry-Negro Syndrome, but McCain is rallying the Confederacy without needing to scream NIGGER!, stroking the Necks of Red with the very taunts he'd use against Hillary Kerry Gore, and rube that I am, this pisses me off.

I've long abandoned hope in Obama's .06% chance of exceptionality, but lordy, his bucketsuckfulness astounds as much as frustrates. Four years to prepare for the same Rovian tactics as always, and Obama thinks nuance suddenly sells in America.

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Updates later. Or not.

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Buying these old farts' new one today.

.


.

What I've heard on KEXP so far is promising, but I'm old.

Eno is God. His great four are going to that silly island where options are limited.

August 15, 2008

Hamster Advice!


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Looking for om in August, Fleabus? Hamster advice!

August sucks. Damn August and everyone born in August. Especially bloggers born in August.

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Updates later. Or not.

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Why should we look for comfort in poetry?

MARBLE-SIZED SONG

Albert Goldbarth

Does she love you? She says yes, but really
how do you know unless you undress that easy assertion,
undoing its petals and laminae, and going in
below all trace of consciousness, into the neuroelectrical
coffer where self-understanding is storaged away,
and then lifting its uttermost molecule out, to study
in its nakedness as it spins
in a clinical light?—the way
we all, in our various individual versions
of this common human urge, go in,
and in, and in, the physicist down
to the string-vibration underlying matter, and
the Appalachia fiddler getting so
(as she puts it) "into my music," sound becomes
a flesh for her to intimately ("in"-timately)
enter, "its thick and its sweetbreads."
Is he cheating on you? He says no, and feigns
that he's insulted, but for certainty
you'll need to delicately strip the bark away
and drill, and tweeze, until you can smear a microscope slide
of the pith and can augur the chitterlings
—the way the philosopher can't accept a surface
assumption of truth, but needs to peel back
the fatty sheen of the dermis, soak the cambium layer
into a blow-away foam, and then with pick
and lightbeam helmet, inch by inch begin
spelunking through those splayed-out caverns
under the crust, where gems of cogitation are buried
—the way the diver descends for the pearl,
the miner: in, the archaeologist: in, the therapist: down
the snakier roots of us and in, and in, the way
the lone, leg-pretzeled yogi makes
a glowing bathysphere of worldliness and sends it in,
and further in, tinier and heavier and ever in,
the way the man in the opium den is floating forever,
toward a horizon positioned in the center of the center
of his head.... If we could stand beyond the border
of our species and consider us objectively, it might seem
that our purpose in existing is to be a living agency
that balances, or maybe even slows, the universe's
irreversible expansion out, and out ... and each
of us, a contribution to that task.
My friend John's wife received the news: a "growth,"
a "mass," on her pituitary, marble-sized, mysterious.
And the primary-care physician said: Yes,
we must go in and in. That couldn't be the final word!
And the second-opinion physician said: Yes,
my sweet-and-shivering-one,
my fingerprint-and-irisprint-uniqueness,
someone's-dearest, you
who said the prayers at Juliette's grave, who drove
all night from Switzerland with your daughter, you
on this irreplaceable day in your irreplaceable skin
in the scumbled light as it crosses the bay in Corpus Christi,
yes in the shadows, yes in the radiance,
yes we must go in and in.

August 14, 2008

Sober, Life is a Prison, Shit-Faced, It's a Blessing. Sober, Nobody Wants You, shit-Faced, they're all undressing. sober, it's even darker, shit-faced, the moon is nearer

World's shittiest human is aflutter with outrage that one country would invade another because it can. Oil, schmoil, oil's gravy. Oil oils the can, produces greater can.

Assholes are assholes because all they see are assholes and know the Asshole Code: what's good for one asshole is just as good for rival assholes.

Meanwhile, Uncle Fiver (yds, y?) reports

As part of the handover to London 2012, David Beckham will star alongside Boris Johnson and Leona Lewis in the closing ceremony of the Beijing Olympics. The plan is for him to enter the stadium in a double-decker bus and kick a ball into the crowd. Sweet lord.

It all fits. Jeebus I'm in a vile mood.

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Updates later. Or not.

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One of six things that might break the vile mood, the only one available now.

There is never not a New Order song in my head.

August 13, 2008

Fifty Today

Feargal!

August 12, 2008

In Which an Obamapostate Attempts to Understand Obamatactics

It's August. This round's pig-racism has been inferred, if not called, and maybe, just maybe, will be called next round or round after but some round. The convention is coming. McCain's attempt to infantilize Obama will doubly-backfire when Obama stomps McCain's doddering fool-ass in the debates. It's August. More Bush scandals are sure to explode. More Bush clusterfuck is sure to explode. It's August. The ecomony, the war, the economy, the war. George W Bush. It's August. Even with our doing relatively nothing, McCain has stopped gaining, despite the pig-ugly. It's August. Obama's opponent is the lamest candidate ever. Chill. Let McCain do the ugly of pigging McCain while able. It's August. McCain and teleprompters. McCain at biker conventions. McCain free-associating at microphones. It's August. Something will KABOOM! that will change all dynamics anyway. We survived the Clintons, we can survive McCain. It's August. Can you remember what you were outraged about two weeks ago?

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In my head, be in yours:

August 11, 2008

Oblahma in Paradise

Here's one example of a liberal blogger overlord mocking Cokie Roberts for attacking Hawaii as Oblahma's vacation destination, complete with rational explanations why it's silly to be attacking Oblahma for vacationing in Hawaii. I'm the rube?

Cokie Roberts can be scolded, mocked, abused, denounced. Her stupid can be proven by logical arguments of least difficulty. Obama vacationing in the state of his birth, where family members still live, may be completely, factually, rebuke-free, which doesn't mean Cokie Roberts is narratively incorrect. When did common sense and truth become factors in American presidential elections?

Cokie suggests Myrtle Beach, and if I agree it would play better in Peoria, what would play better still is NOT TAKING A GODDAMN VACATION IN AUGUST WHILE RUNNING FOR OBAMAGOD!

Jeebus in Crackerstan, either Oblahma doesn't understand the rules of the game or Oblahma believes he floats above the rules of the game (or both), and that makes him one dumb and arrogant obamawannabe, but obamapostasy and meh.

But our internet Liberal overlords, fully aware of the rules of the game, wasting outrage on Cokie Roberts for reporting the Republican narrative, are almost as stupid as Oblahma deciding to finally challenge the Republican meme he's an arrogant elitist by defiantly flying to Hawaii for a vacation before his coronation.

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BTW, typepad has upgraded my composer, and it's buggy as dusk, so if fonts and/or link colors look screwy or things don't work, oh well, I'll figure it out eventually. And, maybe you've noticed, I've set up links (when I remember) to open a new window, which should be especially helpful on FridayMusicFridays.

Meanwhile, in vitally important news, here's the new bag, a Revolution "Deluxe" Mini:


It did not come with anything that improves my game, but sweet nonetheless. It appears I'm sideways from design specs.

August 07, 2008

Pretzelicious? Pretzelitus!

Shee-it, let's hope obamatrophy constipates August until convention, and if Obama survives Obama Fatigue treading even with McCain all will be fine. My friends, insisting my opponent is so much more awesome than me can only distract attention from my own inability to perform for so, um, long (and Teh Obamachub versus impotent sugar-daddy will be a hot! new! series! on Fox!).

I go in Friday afternoon for an ophthalmologist appointment - it's bifocal time, youngsters - but weird is in the last month my eyesight, my reading/writing eyesight, has deteriorated to the point I don't even try reading and can't write in tablets

unless I remove my current glasses. All is fine until I look up, and then I'm not sightless but am stunned by fuzz as if suddenly blind, lost.

Mofos, there isn't anything I can't pretzel into whatever pretzel I'm gnawing into blogable nyah, and since I need to see my tablets' calligraphy as I'm scratching it, my greatest desire is a new pair of grandpa glasses?

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Updates later. Or not.

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In my head. Be in yours.

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