Wednesday, October 1, 2014

You Can Help Choose the Photo That Makes Fleabus the First Official WFMU Mascot Contest!



 

WFMU is holding a silent marathon to raise money for general operations and sound equipment for their new live music venue; for a $50 donation you can enter your pet in a contest to be the first ever Official WFMU Mascot for a Year. FLEABUS! dammit, it should be FLEABUS! Please watch the above (a compilation of photos taken by my daughter Planet) and tell me which three photos you would recommend I submit. Mind, this isn't a democracy people, it's not a vote, I decide, though I can be persuaded. It's a particular DJs turn to get the donation registered on his widget, I'll be making the donation and contest submission late Sunday evening, you have until then and I'll bump this again for all the good it will do, I know you don't want to do this, but at least maybe a couple of long-timers who have been around here as long as Fleabus, please? Oh, and throw the coins in your pocket at WFMU.



The Exact Rock Where His Inexactnesses Would Discover, at Last, the View Toward Which They Had Edged





This is true: there are Lindsey Buckingham songs in my head as I type this. This time I checked for his birthday, it's day after tomorrow, so for once YAY ME!

Have three Lindsey Buckingham songs anyway, including the above, which is always lurking in my head and has been and is and will be posted here numerous times each year forever and ever. Also too true of the second one. Also too true of the third. Also too, the fourth. Also too, have I ever mentioned I love Lindsey Buckingham's music? I'll find more day after tomorrow.






   
I get email:

I'm a researcher at Cornell University studying political communication and internet technologies. My colleagues and I have been working on a tool for reading political news online that highlights words and phrases related to framing. We're currently looking for people who would like to test out this new tool, and I think it may be of interest to readers of BLCKDGRD. 
If you'd be willing to, I've included below some text that you can post in whatever way you think would be best.
Let me know if you have any questions.

Thanks in advance,
~Eric

---

Are you a political junkie? Addicted to the news? Is your browser's homepage the New York Times or Wall Street Journal? Or maybe it's the National Review Online or the Huffington Post? Ever wanted a deeper look at what's being said between the lines?
 
Our team has developed an online tool that identifies framing in political news articles as you read them. We're currently looking for people who want to try out the tool. Plus, you'll be entered in a drawing for a $200 Amazon gift card. 
If you're interested, please contact Eric Baumer: ericpsb@cornell.edu

I went to cornell.edu and looked Eric up - he is who he claims to be. He found me by an old abandoned political blog aggregator I wasn't aware of, so old he pinged to this blog from the previous iteration of this blog, so it's not like he reads this shitty blog, he's chumming for a research project. This is not a criticism. And at least he all-capped BLCKDGRD. Cause it is all-capped, immodest me. I often get solicitations in mail but rarely a legitimate one. I've warned him I'm nobody, with a small but Kind readership, and I suspect most of you aren't interested in participating but that's only because I'm not interested in participating - I do, after all, assume you like what I like with the same overdraft of mwah. If you do participate, I would be interested in hearing about your experience.

Oh, the Inherent Vice trailer:






  • I am in the middle of my biennial trip beyond the zero to un perm' au Casino Hermann Goering when I'm in the zone and meet the counterforce, I'm not sure if I should read another Pynchon right after this one and I'm not sure I should reread Inherent Vice before rather than after seeing the movie.
  • Eric's email reminds me to thank you for your Kindness. If you are Kinding me and me not you swapping blogspit, please let me know.
  • Where we get our beliefs.
  • post-analytic phenomenology versus market serfdom.
  • This Kevin Drum post was approvingly brought to my attention. I know, she was a friend, I promised I would, I didn't want to, I suggest you not read it. Too late? Sorry. Here are the last sentences: Our politicians are in love with war. The public is in love with war. And the press is really in love with war. It just never ends. As always with the Kevin Drums of the Left, gosh-darn it, he once again forgot the motherfucking Triskelions who are well aware - manipulating opinion in fact! - that politicians, the public, and the press love war, and that war is motherfucking excellent for motherfucking Triskelions.
  • It's been ages since a wrote some version of that sentence, I assume it's duh for you, the free middle square in Clusterfuck's bingo. 
  • The Liberal Club hears the truth. I swear I typed the above before reading that, but you'll either believe me or not, and in my defense, it is a duh.
  • Motherfucking Liberals: But the politics of least resistance is what works for today’s liberals. They place a premium on things like voting, as if the ungodly sums of public money spent on elections would ever allow radicals to take seats of power (as if those seats of power in and of themselves were sought in the first place). They place a value on “having diverse voices at the table,” so long as those voices are not too disruptive. They decry respectability politics when it comes to clothing, naming conventions, and appearances, but have no problems enforcing said respectability markers on communities that conceive of a different means by which they can voice their disapproval of systems that oppress them.
  • I wasn't looking for clarity
  • So yes, now I seem to be in a manic phase.
  • So no, I don't expect to hear back from the guy from Cornell nor do I expect him to read this shitty blog.
  • Gnomic Verses.
  • Tomorrow is an Egoslavian Holy Day also too. Think of a jar in Tennessee.







THE POEM THAT TOOK THE PLACE OF A MOUNTAIN

Wallace Stevens

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,

How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

The exact rock where his inexactnesses
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,

Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.



Tuesday, September 30, 2014

There Was an Italian Pharmacist Who Lived in an Expensive Apartment in the Best Part of Town; We Plotted to Overthrow a Tottering Dynasty





My friend Flowerville posted a The Apartments' song yesterday, reminding me. If I'd been paying attention a week ago Sunday or had a chance to listen to archives since friend Dave Mandl would have reminded me then. I'm just glad to be reminded.

My eyes are old, contribute to reading slumps because I can no longer read in bed, they start to ache after an hour, I'm old, dose with Timolol because of genetics, but my ears and the chimes in my brain have never worked better, no doubt in some indeterminable part to compensate for my dying eyes.






  • Living.
  • The slow-motion train-wreck of industrial civilization: Technical fixes only act as bandaids to the inherent flaws of global techno-capitalism. Time lags and feedbacks set in motion by industrial civilization’s rampant consumption of natural resources will extend over centuries and into deep geologic time. Ignoring the various environmental and social warnings at our own peril, we neither fully understand nor comprehend the consequences of our unsustainable way of life.
  • The pathology of Capital.
  • Overrated insect parables: I am more or less convinced that it is the only way to resolve the economic redundancy of humans after Total Automation (assuming we actually get over the upcoming scarcity humps without a massive, violent population reduction): abolish the wage work system.
  • The White Martyrdom Industrial Complex.
  • Why I am as horrible a fucking human as anyone: I want to smash this motherfucker's head open like a melon with a shovel. The motherfucker doesn't get it: As for Mr. Robinson, who faces up to a year in jail, he seemed a little befuddled as to why what he had done had drawn so much negative attention. “People see me in the streets, they frown their face up and everyone’s like I’m this menace person,” Mr. Robinson said. The motherfucker turns me into Gallagher. Fuck everyone, me most.
  • The Waffle House Index. (h/t)
  • Ideology #2: with Respect.
  • Cabin.
  • Overhearing, eavesdroppingI have long thought that these are severely neglected topics in the philosophy of language and literary criticism.
  • Ninety-Fifth Street.





 
i wanted to overthrow the government but all i brought down was somebody's wife

Charles Bukowski


30 dogs, 20 men on 20 horses and one fox
and look here, they write,
you are a dupe for the state, the church,
you are in the ego-dream,
read your history, study the monetary system,
note that the racial war is 23,000 years old.

well, I remember 20 years ago, sitting with an old Jewish tailor,
his nose in the lamplight like a cannon sighted on the enemy; and
there was an Italian pharmacist who lived in an expensive apartment
in the best part of town; we plotted to overthrow
a tottering dynasty, the tailor sewing buttons on a vest,
the Italian poking his cigar in my eye, lighting me up,
a tottering dynasty myself, always drunk as possible,
well-read, starving, depressed, but actually
a good young piece of ass would have solved all my rancor,
but I didn’t know this; I listened to my Italian and my Jew
and I went out down dark alleys smoking borrowed cigarettes
and watching the backs of houses come down in flames,
but somewhere we missed: we were not men enough,
       large or small enough,
or we only wanted to talk or we were bored, so the anarchy
       fell through,
and the Jew died and the Italian grew angry because I stayed
       with his
wife when he went down to the pharmacy; he did not care to have
his personal government overthrown, and she overthrew easy, and
I had some guilt: the children were asleep in the other bedroom
but later I won $200 in a crap game and took a bus to New Orleans
and I stood on the corner listening to the music coming from bars
and then I went inside to the bars,
and I sat there thinking about the dead Jew,
how all he did was sew on buttons and talk,
and how he gave way although he was stronger than any of us
he gave way because his bladder would not go on,
and maybe that saved Wall Street and Manhattan
and the Church and Central Park West and Rome and the
Left Bank, but the pharmacist’s wife, she was nice,
she was tired of bombs under the pillow and hissing the Pope,
and she had a very nice figure, very good legs,
but I guess she felt as I: that the weakness was not Government
but Man, one at a time, that men were never as strong as
       their ideas
and that ideas were governments turned into men;
and so it began on a couch with a spilled martini
and it ended in the bedroom: desire, revolution,
nonsense ended, and the shades rattled in the wind,
rattled like sabers, cracked like cannon,
and 30 dogs, 20 men on 20 horses chased one fox
across the fields under the sun,
and I got out of bed and yawned and scratched my belly
and knew that soon      very soon      I would have to get
very drunk      again.