Baal save me from a murder spree should Gabriel start covering Arcade Fire.
but sheeyitandfuck, he already fucking has, I knew that but forgot, so you're spared.
HEY! Paul Westerberg is fifty-one today!
The first thing I'd do if I really wanted to stop being angry is quit this shitty blog, just like you yours. Nothing reminds me more on an hourly basis how much I get off at pushing publish than watching you push publish. As long as I'm competing - and of course I'm competing, of course you're competing - I shabbily compete for fart's power, just like you do shabbily too! Don't make me be Kind to you.
Here's how regimented I am: because I started this iteration of this shitty blog I have faithfully rotated a Fleabus masthead - AND ALL FLEABUS PHOTOS BY PLANET, YO! - with each new post, so I can only dream about making yesterday's masthead permanent, because to make it permanent is blegethically inconceivable.
- Quelle question.
- We are social animals, we are anti-social animals.
- First the working class, then "the Left."
- Why the rich are getting richer.
- Cutting through vapid arguments about unity.
- 2010 Year in Review: Short Version.
- Obama's selective outrage.
- Krugman's obamapostasy will never be ready.
- Charade? (h/t)
- Haley and the kidney.
- King's plot.
- Just do it.
- Irony, projection, crowds, fear.
- Things to do in Virginia in the winter.
- January does suck at the club.
- 25 most badass goals of 2010.
- 100 soccer blogs for to read in 2011.
- Another year of chawing rosin.
- Books of the year 2010. I agree: skip the Kundera. Always.
- Blind spots 2010.
- Best reissues of 2010.
- War of attrition on listener's attention.
- Stream the Lips for New Years Eve.
We sit in a room armored by light and surrounded by surfaces bright as mirrors. Everything shines and gives comfort, nothing is out of place and our hosts, too, are immaculate, each hair placed with the skill of a jeweler. Our words flutter and fail, too dusty, while theirs flow out in perfect paragraphs. We wonder why they invited us, disheveled and in tatters as we are, to enter their lives. Should we confess our unworthi- ness? And oh we want to scour our brains for some small accomplishment but find nothing worthy, noth- ing to equal the gleaming parquet of their smiles. They are so well-bred we can't believe our good luck, all our gnarled deceits brought here to be honored! And then, suddenly, we know: They're specialists to whom we've come with our shabby guilts and petty crimes to be killed with exquisite kindness.