Out of Equal Amounts of Concentration and Crayon

I tell you, serendipity abounds in clusterfucks! I don't know which I'm addicted to more, which is the lesser enabler.

First, Tuesday I hear a Sonic Youth song and post it as an update. Early Wednesday afternoon I go to my youtube account to see if I wanted to use this

for this post (in which I was going to - and did! - write about what I always write about which you either like reading over and over or wonder why people you like reading like reading me) instead of the photo above I decided to use; while at my youtubes I watched this bit I made over a year ago May:

which is trippy considering CFO's comment about Sonic Youth, which came in long after all the above yesterday afternoon.

I'm, uh, almost always in a better mood than I allow myself to enjoy, mostly because I'm a rube who takes himself (and you) too seriously, but also because I don't want to god-taunt the serendipity or the clusterfuck, so chinging the chiming.

• Tweakistan versus Fiddleburg.
• A gentleman's guide.
• Jeffrey Goldberg as basset hound.
• War without end, amen.
• First as tragedy, then as arse.
• No fool like an Old Tool.
• Pastor Sanctimonious fears for his position in The Village.
• Fears of regime change.
• How reason imperils our fake libertarian heritage.
• How important is principle?
• Your daily duh.
• Your daily heh.
• Either Democrats are sincere idiots on purpose and deploy sincere idiots to appear on TV or our overlords deploy skilled actors on TV to portray sincere idiots.
• Democrats are also pussies.
• About that free market.
• UPDATE! Customer service, part one.
• The first breakfast.
• UPDATE! Library work.
• Real housewives of Bethesda.
• Post-Weast?
• Who's running against Van Hollen?
• UPDATE! Drogma's analysis of the Champions League Draw.
• UPDATE! Heh.
• On Franzen's new novel: So what is it about Jonathan Franzen and poo? In 2001, his wonderful breakthrough novel, "The Corrections," was momentarily stunk up by a scene in which a senile old man imagines his feces talking back to him. A decade later, Franzen's more staid, more mature, but all around less exciting "Freedom" reaches its comic zenith when a young man searches through his own excrement with a fork. What seemed like a sophomoric indulgence in that earlier tour de force now smells stale.
• Franzen versus Stark.
• The poem below is part one of a fourteen part poem, and while I have five minutes a day to type out a poem, I don't have seventy minutes in one day to type out the entire poem, so get ready for two weeks of Goldbarth. Yay!
• Well, look what I got my hands on:

• Motherfucking copyright.
• Who's pushing the classical envelope?
• This week's new releases w/MP3 (w/new Les Savy Fav!)
• Nothing is worth losing that.
• Why can't I touch it?
• Young splendor.
• Come undone.
• Dirge.

(ETYMOLOGICALLY) "WORK WORK"

Albert Goldbarth

1. GO-PART

Somebody's stuffing excelsior into the penis
of the museum's model aurochs. Somebody's snapping
hundreds of plastic halos into the ruffs of hundreds
of plastic Infants of Prague. Somebody's grading exams.
Somebody's sleeping with the Senator. And
the Senator's promising even more jobs,
more automobile assembly lines, and everything
that means to an edgy electorate. In the kitchen,
tonight, my niece is putting a car together,
out of equal amounts of concentration and crayon.
"This is the go-part here" - the steering wheel,
obviously. Green by black by red, it takes shape.
And orange hubcaps. She's chewing her lip.
She's driven all night by this labor.

Looking for yesterday's Debussy, I serendipitously found this, which I had been looking for about a month ago: