Napoleon has us completely trained, and many of our neighbors, except one, who got into a yelling confrontation with - you who know her will like this - Earthgirl. !hEh!
The woman yells, Are these your cats? and Earthgirl says, Well, I guess so, we feed them, they live in our shed, we had them fixed, but they're feral, they really don't belong to anybody, what's the problem? They're in my yard, yelled the neighbor. Well, Earthgirl said, I'll talk to them and ask them to stay out of your yard, but I don't think they'll listen. The woman screamed, My husband is allergic to cats. Tell him not to pet them, Earthgirl says. 21 years this July.
A new orange-and-white has been visiting the commune. Hasn't let us get close enough to see whether a he or she, but the ear hasn't been clipped. (Look at Nap's squared ear - when we had the ferals fixed, the vets sliced off the tip of one ear - it's the international symbol (so we were told) for fixed ferals.) Since we are credentialed Junior Trappers
we'll get him or her fixed if he or she becomes a permanent resident.
Obama's first semester is in the books, and Wankerstan's preeminent wankers, solicited to grade Obama's awesomeness v evil, wank. As all bleggers are wenkers, how do I wenk Obama's first hundred years days?
THE FERALS: Frankie
still walks up to within two feet of me, rolls on his back, meowing for me to pet him, and when I stretch out my arm he runs chicken-shittedly away. OBAMA GRADE = F.
BILL KRISTOL: still in Washington Post, not summarily executed by paper-shredder during an Obama primetime presser. OBAMA GRADE = F.
MY READING SLUMP: I'm halfway through The Kindly Ones, halfway through JR, halfway through Malloy, halfway through Life and Fate, stalled. Am thoroughly engaged with this:
which I didn't get my hands on until long after Obama's inauguration. OBAMA GRADE = C-.
MY .06% LESS-SHITTY THAN THEORY: driven relentlessly down to a desperately pathetic .006%. MY GRADE = Fuck Me.
BLEGGING: In a cluster of brain-cells deep in the left hemisphere where self-respect is generated, a faint and fading but still clear at three in the morning distress signal is pinging. MY GRADE = Incomplete.
wants you to remember whose birthday today is, DC's own:
*
"HISTOIRE"
Harry Mathews
Tina and Seth met in the midst of an overcrowded militarism. "Like a drink," he asked her. "They make great Alexanders over at the Marxism-Leninism." She agreed. They shared cocktails. They behaved cautiously, as in a period of pre-fascism. Afterwards he suggested dinner at a restaurant renowned for it's Maoism. "OK," she said, but first she had to phone a friend about her ailing Afghan, whose name was Racism. The she followed Seth across town past twilit alleys of sexism.
The waiter brought menus and announced the day's specials. He treated them with condescending sexism. So they had another drink. Tina started her meal with a dish of militarism, While Seth, who was hungrier, had a half portion of stuffed baked racism. Their main dishes were roast duck for Seth, and for Tina broiled Marxism-Leninism. Tina had pecan pie a la for dessert, Seth a compote of stewed Maoism. They lingered. Seth proposed a liqueur. They rejected sambuca and agreed on fascism.
During the meal, Seth took the initiative. He inquired into Tina's fascism, About which she was reserved, not out of reticence but because Seth's sexism Had aroused in her a desire she felt she should hide - as though her Maoism Would willy-nilly betray her feelings for him. She was right. Even her deliberate militarism Couldn't keep Seth from realizing that his attraction was reciprocated. His own Marxism-Leninism Became manifest, in a compulsive was that piled the Ossa of confusion on the Peleion of racism.
Next, what? Food finished, drinks drunk, bills paid - what racism Might now swamp their yearning in an even greater confusion of fascism? But women are wiser than words. Tina rested her hand on his thigh and, a-twinkle with Marxism-Leninism, Asked him, "My place?" Clarity at once abounded under the flood-lights of sexism, They rose from the table, strode out, and he with the impetuousness of young militarism Hailed a cab to transport them to her lair, heaven-haven of Maoism.
In the taxi he soon kissed her. She let him unbutton her Maoism And stroke her resilient skin, which was quivering with shudders of racism. When beneath her jeans he sensed the superior Lycra of her militarism, His longing almost strangled him. Her little tongue was as potent as fascism In its elusive certainty. He felt like then and there tearing off her sexism But he reminded himself: "Pleasure lies in patience, not in the greedy violence of Marxism-Leninism."
Once home, she took over. She created a hungering aura of Marxism-Leninism As she slowly undressed him where he sat on her over-stuffed art-deco Maoism, Making him keep still, so that she could indulge in caresses, in sexism, In the pursuit of knowing him. He groaned under the exactness of her racism - Fingertip sliding up his nape, nails incising her soles, teeth nibbling his fascism. At last she guided him to bed, and they lay down on a patchwork of Old American militarism.
Biting his lips, he plunged his militarism into the popular context of her Marxism-Leninism, Easing one thumb into her fascism, with his free hand coddling the tip of her Maoism, Until, gasping with appreciative racism, both together sink into the revealed glory of sexism.
A typical progressive blegger's predictable snap on the corpse of rump Republicans:
If the GOP were a credible and competitive national party, leaving
things as-is might be a sensible approach. But given reality, it's
hardly a recipe for success.
Gets old, yes, it's my schtick too, eating not only fetid but regurgitated fetid pig meat, but if pigflu goes deadly and pandemic, holy shit, someone who'd buy thislicense plate (h/t)
Will they have children? Will they have more children? Exactly what is their position on dogs? Large or small? Chained or running free? Is the wife smarter than the man? Is she older? Will this cause problems down the line? Will he be promoted? If not, will this cause marital strife? Does his family approve of her, and visa versa? How do they handle the whole in-law situation? Is it causing some discord already? If she goes back to work, can he fix his own dinner? Is his endless working about the yard and puttering with rain gutters really just a pretext for avoiding the problems inside the house? Do they still have sex? Do they satisfy one another? Would he like to have more, would she? Can they talk about their problems? In their most private fantasies, how would each of them change their lives? And what do they think of us, as neighbors, as people? They are certainly cordial to us, painfully polite when we chance-encounter one another at the roadside mailboxes - but then, like opposite magnets, we lunge backward, back into our own deep root systems, darkness and lust strangling any living thing to quench our thirst and nourish our helplessly solitary lives. And we love our neighborhood for giving us this precious opportunity, and we love our dogs, our children, our husbands and wives. It's just all so damn difficult.
Quaranta/Pontius or Gomez/Moreno, three seconds: Choose.
I wasn't going to slam Soehn for bunkering (this guy can vouch that minutes after the game I said I wasn't going to slam Soehn for bunkering, which doesn't really prove anything, does it?). I don't think Soehn did bunker. I think he did prove not reinforcing Namoff-Jakovic-Burch on a mid-summer hot game (with spring-fit players) on a concrete field field against a zippy winger turning Wallace and Burch inside-out PLUS a once world-class striker, arguably the best striker in MLS, doesn't work either. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, comes with the territory.
United fucked up three can't-gack chances: Quaranta's crappy lob on a breakway in 26th, Wallace off a Conway botch (when Benny ran to a spot and screened Conway, hEh!) in first half stoppage, and Emilio vomiting a breakaway in 53rd. There was a game plan that sliced Metros defense open; it's not Tom Soehn's fault his players didn't finish.
(Um, fairness requires I mention Metro gacks, many courtesy of Crayton [some saved by Crayton], especially Goldthwaite's dead-header in 60th on (I think) either a FK or CK, Crayton flailing absurdly.)
Jacobson for Olsen was a necessary and equal switch - I do question Benny starting on concrete, I got harder questions about Benny starting the second half seeing how he came out. Barklage for Fred is a duh (Fred, when not interested, is a net-minus, yo). Khumalo for Wallace: smart move and fortunate shazam.
That first 60 minutes was as attractive United's looked offensively in a MLS game since... when? Last Wednesday's US Cup game v Dallas was attractive soccer. This is a bigger, faster, more athletic and skilled team than last year's. Last year's team wouldn't have had the physical reserves or soccer skills to steal two late goals when gassed on 90 degrees and 90 minutes of running on concrete. That's what's encouraging about the stolen three points. Pontius, Wallace, Jacobson, and Barklage are major upgrades over Vide and Thompson and Carroll and Zaher. (And I wonder whether Gomez and Moreno can keep up with them, I'm guessing this will be the last season for each, it will be interesting to see how Soehn juggles this.)
O! 89th minute, Telemundo shows video of new Metros stadium: Fuck-Me Jig.
Angel turned Jakovic inside-out, and both Wallace and Burch were clearly out-paced by Richards (though Wallace might have the physical skills - this could have been inexperience).
But Wallace on the left-wing is a revelation offensively - this is the widest United team since Josh Gros.
Quaranta - fully un-discommodated disdiscommodated, yes? - despite the gacked lob, was terrific at ten. I hope Gomez' hammy still benches him this Saturday.
Let me repeat myself: a disinterested Fred is a net-minus.
Crayton, oy.
Here's first impressions from D and Fullback and Shatz. More if and when, or not.
When the corpse revived at the funeral, The outraged mourners killed it; and the soul Of the revenant passed into the body Of the poet because it had more to say. He sat down a the piano no one could play Called Messiah, or The Regulator of the World, Which had stood for fifty years, to my knowledge, Beneath a painting of a red-haired woman In a loose gown with one bared breast, and played A posthumous work of the composer S____ About the impotence of God (I believe) Who has no power not to create everything. It was the Autumn of the year and wet, When the music started. The musician was Skillful but the Messiah was out of tune And bent the time and the tone. For a long hour The poet played the Regulator of the World As the spirit prompted, and entered upon The pathways of His power - while the mourners Stood with slow blood on their hands Astonished by the weird processional And the undertaker figured his bill. --- We have in mindan unplayed instrument Which stands apart in a memorial air Where the room darkens toward its inmost wall And a lady hangs in her autumnal hair At evening of the November rains: and wind Sublime out of the North, and North by West, Are sowing from the death-sack of the seed The burden of her cloudy hip. Behold, I send the demon I know to relieve your need, An imperfect player at the perfect instrument Who takes in his hand The Regulator of the World To keep the splendor from destroying us. Lady! The last virtuoso of the composer S___ Darkens your parlor with the music of the Law. When I was green and blossomed in the Spring I was mute wood. Now I am dead I sing.
!oHeHo!, the first time (I've noticed) I've been purged from a blegrell. A soccer-blegger back from hiatus, freshening up the bleg, adding-to and purging his blegrell, appropriately purged my ass. I'm not soccer-centric, I tell myself, but I'm shallow and have esteem-issues: it nags me like a sore tooth I can't step tonguing.
Set theory, taxonomy: people smarter than me keep writing about Alain Badiou - Alain Badiou this, Alain Badiou that, just what does Alain Badiou say in his seminal Being and Event about my shetty bleg being purged:
The anxiety of the void, otherwise known as the care of being, can thus be recognized, in all presentation, in the following: the structure of the count is reduplicated in order to verify itself, to vouch that its effects, for the entire duration of the exercise, are complete, and to unceasingly bring the one into being within the un-encounterable danger of the void. Any operation on the count-as-one (of terms) is in some manner doubled by a count of the count, which guarantees, at every moment, that the gap between the consistent multiple (such that it results, composed of ones) and the inconsistent multiple (which is solely the presupposition of the void, and does not present anything) is verifiably null. It thus ensures that there is no possibility of that disaster of presentation ever occurring which would be the presentational occurrence, in torsion, of the structure's own void.
Voids and nulls, even if I could have understood Badiou in my intellectually-athletic youth (and honestly, I don't think I could have, I think I am was the class capable of understanding the best people interpreting Badiou for me, which puts me - wishful thinking best case - on Level Three), I sure as fuck can't now, my thought-muscles flabby and fifty - but even then, I don't think Badiou would have invited me to be his Facebook friend, but I'd still not drop his ass from my blegrell if I had blegrelled his shetty bleg in the first place. Click Fleabus, yo.
The day that senior Bush officials, like Bush and Cheney themselves,
take the perp walk in chains and orange jumpsuits is the day I
publically register as a Democrat, don an Obama t-shirt, and burn a
stack of "Savage Mules."
A woman I used to know well died A week ago. Not to be mysterious: She and I were married. I'm told She fell down dead in the street in Lower Manhattan, and I suppose She suffered a stroke or a heart attack. The last time I saw her was in the spring Of 1955, meaning forty-four Years ago, and now when I try To imagine her death I see in my Mind a good-looking, twenty-nine- Year old woman sprawled on the pavement. It does no good to go and examine My own ravaged face in the bathroom Mirror; I cannot transpose my ravage- Ment to her. She is fixed in my mind as she was. Brown hair, brown eyes, Slender and sexy, coming home From her job as a sales editor in a huge Building in midtown. Forty-four Years is longer than I thought. My dear, How could you let this happen to you?
*
One of my five desert island bands (I have at least 20 of them)
Though Fred gacked two open nets before finally scoring, it was his best game in ages, which may not be a coincidence - perhaps he needs better athletes, not necessarily better soccer players, around him, players who can play at a faster pace than past and current tens.
Because Barklage, for at least for one game, had more pace and athleticism than First Gomez, then Gallardo, now Second Gomez. He seems a significant upgrade over Dyachenko as a back-up 10. Mind, one game against arguably MLS' worse team's reserves, but encouraging.
Jacobson too. Khumalo looked good if a bit like a Parchesi piece. Janicki, despite the hand-ball, played very strong, and I'm coming around on Jakovic, who looks like a good find. Kocic isn't ready, but he's no worse than Crayton.
I'm
told they will be put in the mail within fifteen minutes. I should add,
I've always been extremely pleased with how United has treated me.
Adding, my ticket agents - Mike(?) Defazio(?), then Ricky Mattei, now German, have always been terrific and extremely helpful. None of my aargh was ever aimed at them.
Want a case study in disenfranchised rump-party apocalyptic paranoia, read me write about United.
Look, I've an impulse towards spirituality without a religious object, I invest and diffuse that impulse - consciously, with great rube, self-mockery, reverse-Ba'al taunting, and irony - through United.
I think United will leave town. It breaks my heart. I wonder how things got to this point. There will be a funk over the team until some resolution is had. I will do a Fuck-Me Jig at the first game of a new stadium or the first game after a contract is signed ensuring that DCU will stay at an upgraded RFK.
Love and XOXO. Really.
UPDATE: I Get Mail
Thank you for contacting me
regarding your support for a new Maryland stadium for the professional soccer
team DC United.
As you may know, no action was
taken by the Maryland General Assembly this session to facilitate the team’s
move due to a lack of support among the members of the Prince George’s County
Council.The Council voted to
oppose legislation (SB1020/HB1282) that would have authorized the state to study
construction of a professional soccer stadium in their county.
While the original proposal had
the new stadium being built in Prince
George’s County, I am aware that some members of the
Montgomery County Council may be exploring the concept of a stadium in the I-270
corridor.You may want to be in
touch with your council members to encourage them to pursue this option.
Thank you again for taking the
time to share your views with me.
Cheney is calling for release of torture documents, daring Obama release all the dirtiest of dirty and all and everyone who was complicit, and his lieutenants are publicly waxing their pro-torture boners:
Critics claim that enhanced techniques do not produce good intelligence
because people will say anything to get the techniques to stop. But the
memos note that, "as Abu Zubaydah himself explained with respect to
enhanced techniques, 'brothers who are captured and interrogated are
permitted by Allah to provide information when they believe they have
reached the limit of their ability to withhold it in the face of
psychological and physical hardship." In other words, the terrorists
are called by their faith to resist as far as they can -- and once they
have done so, they are free to tell everything they know. This is
because of their belief that "Islam will ultimately dominate the world
and that this victory is inevitable." The job of the interrogator is to
safely help the terrorist do his duty to Allah, so he then feels
liberated to speak freely.
We tortured them out of kindness to help the fucking Muslim find Allah, beotches.
Totally not a coincidence (if not directly coordinated), Jane Harmon is plamed, a very public reminder that everyone is surveilled and everyone is guilty and guilty on tape, available for infinite and very public relooping.
BWOCK! They're playing chicken, betting Obama's both a pussy and a fellow torturer, and I'd take that bet.
HEY! As I type this KEXP is playing !NEW! SONIC YOUTH! and wOOt! (though it's not out until June). Go here Thursday, enter Wednesday April 21 at 7:44 PST and wOOt!
MLS is not the only league confronting attendance challenges; look no
further than the Washington Nationals, Major League Baseball's most
embarrassing franchise on and off the field. On a perfect weekend of
weather, the Nats never cracked 20,000 (19,026, 19,864 and 16,974).
Lordy, I was looking for something else and found this poem, which I'd been looking for a couple of weeks ago in the Hudgins I couldn't find - it won't surprise you to know I don't do categorizing well - but found just now in an anthology where I was looking for something else. Ba'al, I love the uncanny:
THE PERSISTENCE OF NATURE IN OUR LIVES
Andrew Hudgins
You find them in the darker woods occasionally - those swollen lumps of fungus, twisted, moist, and yellow - but when they show up on the lawn it's like they tracked me home. In spring the persistence of nature in our lives rises from below, drifts from above. The pollen settles on my skin and waits for me to bloom, trying to work green magic on my flesh. They're indiscriminate, these firs. They'll mate with anything. A great green-yellow cloud of pollen sifts across the house. The waste of it leaves nothing out - not even men. The pollen doesn't care I'm not a tree. The golden storm descends. Wind lifts it from the branches, lofts it in descending arches of need and search, a grainy yellow haze that settle over everything as if it's all the same. I love the utter waste of pollen, a scum of it on every pond and puddle. It rides the ripples and, when they dry, remains, a line of yellow dust zigzagging in the shape of waves. One night, perhaps a little drunk, I stretched out on the porch, watching the Milky Way. At dawn I woke to find a man-shape on the hard wood floor, outlined in pollen - a sharp spread-eagle figure drawn there like the body at a murder scene. Except for that spot, the whole damn house glittered green-gold. I wandered out across the lawn, my bare feet damp with dew, the wet ground soft, forgiving, beneath my step. I understood I am, as much as anyone, the golden beast who staggers home, in June, beneath the yearning trees.