Why I Lost the Face Mullet, Or: Hunch and Luck and Telepathy

I didn't want to turn into "Cape Man."

I admit, we have seven cats, three indoor, four ferals, plus statuary accumulating in Earthgirl's gardens by one every Mother's Day to piss off the neighbors

(the big shiny red ball on pedestal next year, I guarantee),

but since shaving off my face mullet, I have not hoarded guns nor told a Utah bank manager I was gonna kill Barack Obama.

Shave. Save yourself.

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• True.
• On the Cairo speech.
• I was gonna flip Fred Hiatt off for Friday's World's Shittiest and Pastor Knob and especially a wank from a AEI wank, and thought why? and it's Sunday now and Day 3 of not linking to Fred Hiatt's posse of pussies!
• And?
• On false equivalences.
• How do you strike a totality?
• Plum Rain and yang mei.
• Excellent bleg something. It's not sure what it's about, but has both Alejandro Escovedo and MST3K videos is some kind of epic.
• David Carradine remembered, not mocked.
• Son of When Mates Release Records.
• T-Rexes threaten world football!
• Fire Bill Bradley.

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Always read anything by Hilary Mantel. This is from the latest London Review of Books; she's writing about her time working as a social worker in Britain in the 70s:

My patient there, Mr M, was not yet 70. But in those days, and in the industrial north, 70 was old. He had a complex of diseases, none good enough to kill him; he hacked, gasped, wheezed, and re-lit a cigarette. The hospital rooms had half-doors, and the upper halves could be folded back, so the patients were like horses in stalls. There were deep verandas where, in former times, TB patients lay wrapped in blankets on wheeled pallets, breathing in the mild air. Sitting in a wheelchair on one of these verandas, Mr M told me he had one relative living, his sister Mrs B, older than himself and a long-time widow. She would visit, he said, if somebody would find her and bring her.

I'm halfway through Wolf Hall, and !!!! No one writes better about the complicities of even our best motives.

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Too Here

Albert Goldbarth

Maybe the gods do walk among us, swaggering,
consoling, pitying, lusting for our warmth and inexperience
that must be a kind of sexual veal to them
-- whatever, maybe they are here, always, invisibly.
Maybe we do exist in fields of psychic interconnection,
and the way electromagnetism or gravity is a grain
that patterns space-time, so are waves
-- although we'll never be aware of them -- of hunch
and luck or telepathy. As for neutrinos:
it isn't maybe. They're showering through this page
and your hand and your heart right now. The moth
beats in a frenzy around the candle flame, as if trying
to whip the light itself into a cream. It can't refuse
the bulb in the bedside lamp, the headlight in the car.
And yet it doesn't even seem to see the sun
-- the sun is too here for that.

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Woo-hoo in Danish is woo-hoo.