BLCKDGRD

Somehow a Dog Has Taken Itself & Its Tail Considerably Away into Mountains or Sea or Sky, Leaving Behind: Me, Wag.

 

Some representative blegangst that's abundant throughout Blegsylvania, and no I'm not calling anyone specific out, yo. 

The duh is stale, the yodelers against duh are bored of yodeling against the duh to other bored yodelers is my yodeler's duh hunch, but I'm just a barking weathervane.

My guarantee to you: Ever ready to bark at duh, ever ready to evoke old avatars for a giggle.

• Obamasshole.
• Tale of Two Blogospheres.
• The dialethic right.
• The non-existent hand.
• America the white.
• Succeeding away from ourselves.
• Darkblack's back from making ocarinas out of moose turds.

• My future hell is in the New York Times? Heh, they call it Rockville.
• More reasons to live in Maryland, not Virginia.
• Purple Line!
• Baithersgurgle!
• Poolesville!
• A big day in Boyds!
• Where I'd have been yesterday if I could: Fulham have come from behind to beat Hamburg and qualify for the Europa League final! In Hamburg. There's jubilation all around Craven Cottage, and a tear in Roy Hodgson's eye. Tis beautiful. It's why you STAND! through the shitty seasons.

• We're all light.
• Powers.
• The best bad novelist? Generosity was my biggest reading disappointment in years, especially after I adored Echo Maker.
• I read Mrs Bridge thirty years ago.
• Mary Anne with the shaky hands.
• Greenman.
• Just heard the new New Pornographers' single, and here's the song they stole the riff from.

DREAM SONG 14

John Berryman

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights and gripes
as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever:

United 4, Dallas 2

No grand conclusions, no ridiculous predictions, but I see what United sees in Andy Najar, though he's small and can be easily shouldered off the ball. He's only seventeen, so maybe he'll get bigger. The most nagging question: Is it pronounced na-HAR like I think or NAY-jer like Skip and John?

UPDATE! Via the video posted bottom, it's na-HAR.

And no grand conclusions or ridiculous predictions beyond this: most pleasing beyond the beautiful goals (and all I truly ask out of life are beautiful goals) was the urgency United displayed. They needed to win and they played desperate, they played aggressive. More, please, starting this Saturday at the dumbass kickoff time of four fucking o'clock v Metros.

Some bullets:

• I wondered why Barra started chanting Ben-ny Ol-sen around the 35th minute: I didn't know Onalfo had been kicked out for cursing out the ref. Benny was the field coach for the last 2/3 of the game.
• Cristian Castillo - I didn't realize how small he is until he stood next to Najar, and I think his biggest problem is he doesn't like to hit or be hit, which is FAIL! in MLS. Still, his best game for DCU so far.
• Jordan Graye was abused, simply abused, by some tall blonde dude name Brek Shea who ran at and around Graye like Graye was a traffic cone. It's a good think Brek Shea can't finish.
• Wallace is not improving at left back.
• When Devon McTavish is the best defender on the field depth at defender is lacking.
• Cristman's goals were exceptionally well-taken. He can't create his own shot, but if fed he can finish.
• Simms, Quaranta, and Moreno were given minutes for fitness, which, considering United has games Saturday, Wednesday, Saturday, is a good sign.
• Emilio? Really? End of the Allsopp Era?
• I've never seen RFK so empty

• That's 100 level five minutes before kick-off. Was there some other sporting event happening in DC at the same time? Who won?

Again, joy at goals, joy at winning, joy at another USOC game at RFK on May 19, joy that we still have a chance at games in Germantown this summer, caution that United needs six points in the two league matches in the next seven days.

UPDATE!

DOINK!

Holyfuck, my riffs on hate sure plopped. I hope it's there was a pang and wince of self-recognition - you are a hater too, O! yes you are - however much I defer to the simpler explanation that this bleg sucks.

ENOUGH! I've two tickets for tonight's USOC qualifying match between United and Dallas @ 730 @ RFK. Landru and Ilse aren't going: they're staying home to watch the Washington Capital's embellish their legacy as the gaggaggagiest dogs in NHL history, if not all of professional sport; I called Hamster, I emailed Elric, and Hamster's watching the game on TV and Elric GOT A FREE TICKET TO THE GAME! Heh.

I can PDF the ticket to you or I can meet you at the stadium/leave at will call, you get yourself to and from the game, you buy me a beer at halftime. I'll be around email until approx 130 then cell only after, so if you're not sure but might be email me 130 and I'll give you my cell: I was told to go throw discs, so I am: Patapsco again before ticks take over.

I Was Moved to Internal Whirring Cicadish, Even Though My Epiphanic Dog-Walkings Mean Shit to You in the Throes of Your Epiphanic Askings of the Moon

Amy, one of my four most influential teachers, once told me that one of the most pernicious tenets of liberal cultural studies is the invocation against hate, the premium on tolerance as the ultimate virtue, the belief that one cannot do serious scholarship or be considered an honest scholar if one harbors one suppressed dollop of disdain for any subject(s) within or without one's expertise. Her field was Queer Theory and her specialty theories of passing. She told me, taking pride in not hating who wants to beat the fuck out of you for being you, taking pride in not hating who wants to make your identity a crime, doesn't make you a morally virtuous paragon and a better teacher and scholar but a motherfucking fool and, worse, a motherfucking tool.

She left academia. Did she jump or was she pushed? Yes.

• I do hate me motherfucking christers.
• Changing face of racism.
• Police states.
• Obamasshole.
• Obamasshole.
• What if Obama was a Telco?
• Fat pig loves fat pig.
• After the dead horses.
• Does culture disappear?
• Losing privacy?
• Grifting can be profitable.
• On a happier note, bunnies!
• More happiness.

• Don't buy this house.
• UPDATE! Why the fuck is the University of Maryland fighting the Purple Line?
• Don't camp on Greenfield Road - something I knew thirty years ago.
• Fredneckery!
• One mile from my house!
• UPDATE! How Fulham does it.

• What novelists contributed to whose campaign in 2008?
• Final exam.
• High stakes criticism.
• 25 funniest album covers?
• Please don't forget counterstream.
• UPDATE! The Great Riff War of 2010!
• Me and Jane Doe.
• Drunken angel.
• UPDATE! Why the fuck is Jack White on my radio?
• Back and forth.
• UPDATE! This week's new releases w/MP3.
• Hey, goodbye.
• Black Star (she's been in HEAVY rotation lately).

Today's
            Listening
                            Assignment
                                               Today's
                                                            Listening
                                                                           Assignment

Call me a lyre, I dare you

Bob Hicok

Last of some night
light, who cares the when of this,
glittered the tree up at the ned
of the wash from a car as moved the planet, I'm not
in touch with personally Saturn, in branched fingers
of eerily, I'd say off-the-shelf language, isn't it
necessary still how life lit into the moment
to say other than the facts of it, see,
whatever the bits are inside that oscillate
or pinwheel, I was moved to internal whirring
cicadish, even though my epiphanic dog-walkings
mean shit to you in the throes of your
epiphanic askings of the moon, for what, afterall
are we in this, some random sense of, fuck
if I know, belonging

Another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever:

Reminder

All Fleabus photos are by Planet. Click, yo.

Go Dump Daddy's Ammo Boxes into the Fragrant River

If I was a white supremacist Alabaman or Arizonan worried about the inevitability of actuarial tables and the year 2040, I'd make Alabama and Arizona as unpleasant for brown people as possible.

Let me be petty: What percentage of the Mississippians directly affected by these tornadoes who hate the federal government, resent every penny of tax, believe Obama is Chairman Maobama if not the motherfucking antichrist, will expect - demand - federal assistance?

I won't listen to Rush Limbaugh (who's nothing more than a whore's whore), but I listen to Michael Savage (who's a whore too, but more his own whore), and so should you. He's not only a better professional provocateur - his rants sound authentic - he services that percentage of Americans who literally daydream of patriotic violence and patriotic martyrdom.

 

I understand why regular Savage listeners feel their world slipping away and I'm small enough to take delight. I remember our time in Deale, when we had our friends Henry and Donna to the marina house for a weekend, being told the minute they drove out of the parking lot by four cracker boat owners that if I ever let that nigger and his white skank race traitor bitch back they'd lynch my ass too. I told them to fuck off; my tires were slashed that night.

It's obvious with my constant cracker this christer that I'm a stone bigot, but I've never said I was tolerant. I try to be intolerant to everyone, but I'm not large enough, I'm weak, I haven't a reservoir of endless hate, I haven't endless time to hate, I need to focus what hate I can summon on a few select targets - Arcade Fire, Raymond Carver, Terry Fucking Vaughn - that don't affect the quality of anyone's life but my own, and on a few large targets that affect the quality of my selfish insignificant life as a happily complicit home-owning, tax-paying, law-abiding, bloody-handed cog in capital's race to ingest everything, and motherfucking crackers nostalgic for 1920's Alabama and motherfucking christers jonesing for white jeebus, well, it's delicious to hate them, it's delicious to demonize them, it's delicious to organize to keep them out of our schools, out of our state houses, to keep their hands off our wives' and daughters' uteruses, to keep them as marginalized and mocked and furious and ugly as possible.

And yes, I know crackers are funded and encouraged to be ugly to keep rubes like me busy hating them rather than hating what needs hating more, to keep me nostalgic for an America that will never be. I'm working to make my hate more copious, more all encompassing.

• You cannot man the barricades with a mouth full of cheetos.
• It's not the sex fraud. Its never the sex fraud.
• Free Market means welfare for the wealthy.
• American kleptocracy.
• Capitalism. (Do read the comments.)
• Disinformation campaign.
• Winners and losers.
• A question that answers itself.
• Who is Barack Obama?
• On tolerance, which I lack.
• Why Seb won't live in New York.
• Things that trouble Landru.
• UPDATE! People trust the face-mullets.

• Fuck Bob Ehrlich, a man I can vote against without self-recrimination.
• Metro! If the train had been in Arizona, the guy whose neck was trapped would have been asked for his papers.
• Maryland prison populations (Hi RJ! regular reader and Major Poobah in state corrections!)
• Don't stop and ask for directions on Whiskey Bottom Rd. If you do, and you're Hispanic, and this was Arizona, make sure to have your papers with you.
• Catoctin Aqueduct! Babs was there!
• East Diamond Avenue!
• UPDATE! Not only can concussions crimp one's soccer career, they can keep one from running in the Kentucky Derby.
• UPDATE! Hah, I don't know if Planet got it first, but she was the first to personally HEH! the joke.

• Dissidence as entertainment.
• Bomb news and burrito burps.
• UPDATE! Don't forget Overgrown Path.
• The Last Art Rock Band?
• I like The National enough to enjoy on the radio but not enough to buy it, though the song at the bottom is another one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever.

A REACTIONARY TALE

Linh Dinh

I was a caring husband. I bought socks for my family.

My swarthy wife liked to wear these thick woolen socks that came
up to her milky thighs.

I had a lover also. People could see me walking around each
evening carrying a walking stick.

My most vivid memory, looking back, is of a pink froth bubbling
out of my infant's mouth.

Not everything was going so well: one morning, malnourished
soldiers marched down our tiny street, bringing good news.

When good news arrives by mail, the cuckoo sang, tear up the
envelope. When good news arrives by e-mail, destroy the
computer.

When an old friend came by to reclaim an old wound, I said to 
    my
oldest son: Go dump daddy's ammo boxes into the fragrant river.

To reduce drag, some of my neighbors were diving headfirst into a
shallow lake.

We were rich and then we were poor. A small dog or maybe a 
    cat
now pulls our family wagon.

Thank You, Terry Fucking Vaughn

I woke up this morning, checked my email, spun through my four or five first reads, clicked to this shetty bleg and looked at the sitemeter, and Holy Abbey Okulaja, there are 300 hits since 11:00 pm last night, almost all from Seattle, all pinging this post about the DCU-Philly game. What the fuck?

Oh well. I go to google reader to spin through the subscriptions and find, about last night's Seattle-Dallas game:

In the final minute of second-half stoppage time, referee Terry Vaughn awarded a penalty for an alleged foul on rookie Jason Yeisley, who appeared to trip over the legs of Seattle defenders Jhon Kennedy Hurtado and Nelson Gonzalez. FC Dallas striker Jeff Cunningham converted his second penalty of the match to give Dallas a 2-2 tie against the Sounders.

Google Terry Fucking Vaughn, see who's #1 in the world, mofos. I'm honored, though there's no way Terry Fucking Vaughn will deliver as many hits over the years as this February 18, 2007 post has and still does because I titled a post from a line from a Hilary Mantel novel. Though I've lost my spot as number one on eformeday eoplepay, I still get thirty hits a day from creeps looking for images of them.

But most importantly, Terry Fucking Vaughn is one motherfucking shitty referee. That MLS considers him one of the best tells you what you need know about the ones MLS considers shittier.

The Kinds of Selfishness I Could Freely Adopt as My Own

Landru and Jim have takes on the crackers (and takes on the takes of the crackers), and yes, I'm not so horrified at images of dead Afghani children killed by American ordinance that I no longer think my selfish little stake in this fucked-up country is threatened more by empowered crackerchristers (who believe one problem with this country is we're not bombing enough brown people, yo) than by what complicit tossers of arch would justly argue, but yadda, why anguish over that again when today I can anguish over.....

Blegstuff! I haven't nibbled myself lately but hits have gone up, almost exclusively because spambots in the Philippines and China have been pounding this bleg and within seconds sending me offers on discount prescriptions - boner-meds; how do these spambots know? - at what was this bleg's live email link, and down bleg I'm getting more and more spambotted comments like: "Hi, your post made my day! You're so funny! Blogs like yours are why I love reading blogs! Perhaps you'd be interested in my elephant dung hair-restorative...." Though those of you new here, thanks.

Anyway, that old email isn't dead (those who've booked it, please continue using) but it's bleg link has been severed from The Collective, and the new email for those who wish is (at)(dot)ted just below my photo.

As for the comments, I was talking to a systems guy and blegfriend, and when he asked me how's the bleg and I related all this, he assured me I'm a stonecold moron to not enable the comment verification fields. I knew typepad enabled a verification field, but when I looked today typepad recommends against its own verification program and trust instead their anti-spam filtering. I'm torn: if I can't trust typepad when they tell me something doesn't suck, can I trust them when they tell me a product of theirs does suck? In any case, you're not squiggle-burdened yet.

And, O! in monkeying around in typepad to change the bleg's email I finally took the three minutes needed to figure out typepad's newest blegrell functionality, so I might do some small rearranging to help me work my way through bookmarks but also truly create a space where new additions can be highlighted before I banish the sites to a categorization of my choosing. Or not.

• International Language of Police Power.
• Lethal hypocrisy.
• UPDATE! Death state.
• Illiterate or indifferent. Yes.
• On digital power and its discontents.
• Chomsky is worried about Joe Stacks.
• DIY Distraction.
• Perspective.
• Have you read "Sein und Zeit?"
• The most powerful man in the world?
• UPDATE! Sycophant to the Stars.
• diehipster.com
• Duh, but necessary to repeat.
• When we were in Philly I bitched about the poor horses. Repeat after me: if you hire a horseless carriage for a tourist jaunt, you are an asshole.

• Upper MOCO hospital fight!
• Clarksburg!
• Wheaton!
• Sleeping giant.
• Babs!

• Shit.
• Told you I didn't do it.

• Bill Vollmann becomes a woman.
• Foundations of the 21st C.
• Inherent Vice should be on this list.
• The typewriter and the poem.
• Lionel Shriver, America's best novelist? I tried The Post-Birthday World, I tried We Need to Talk About Kevin, finished neither. Which neither proves nor disproves anything.
• One of Earthgirl's favorite novels. I read it 20 years ago, enjoyed it, think of it now and then, though I was born with a weak fantasy-reading gene.
• This week's new releases w/MP3.
• The way that he sings.
• UPDATE! I wanna destroy you.
• Why the fuck is Fleet Foxes on my radio?
• UPDATE! Destroy everything you touch.
• In on the kill taker.
• A week late, a tax-day playlist.
• UPDATE! My forgotten favorite.

STILL

A.R. Ammons

I said I will find what is lowly
and put the roots of my identity
down there:
each day I'll wake up
and find the lowly nearby,
a handy focus and reminder,
a ready measure of my significance,
the voice by which I would be heard,
the wills, the kinds of selfishness
I could
freely adopt as my own:

but though I have looked everywhere,
I can find nothing
to give myself to:
everything is

magnificent with existence, is in 
surfeit of glory:
nothing is diminished,
nothing has been diminished for me:

I said what is more lowly than the grass:
ah, underneath,
a ground-crust of dry-burnt moss:
I looked at it closely
and said this can be my habitat: but
nestling in I
found
below the brown exterior
green mechanisms beyond the intellect
awaiting resurrection in rain: so I got up

and ran saying there is nothing lowly in the universe:
I found a beggar:
he had stumps for legs: nobody was paying
him any attention: everybody went on by:
I nestled in and found his life:
there, love shook his body like a devastation:
I said
though I have looked everywhere
I can find nothing lowly
in the universe:

I whirled though transfigurations up and down,
transfigurations of size and shape and place:

at one sudden point came still,
stood in wonder:
moss, beggar, weed, tick, pine, self, magnificent
with being!

In addition to the song being one of dozens of my five favorite songs ever, I saw this band at 930 on F:

Fifty-One Today

Happy Birthday Robert Smith.

Sixty-Three Today