Saturday, January 19, 2013

Our Mostly Deaf Dog. Our Mostly Dead Dog Statistically Speaking

Pseu played this song last night, hadn't heard it in at least thirty years, was my favorite song when I was eleven. From the new place: I have not put pen to tablet since google broke my ability to modify BLCKDGRD’s template. I’ve not put pen to tablet since I was thanked for typing out tablet. The first happened one day, the second the next day, though autohagiographically I will remember them as single event. True that. So yeah, that's where the bleggalgazing has been, is, probably will be. The tug of HiattThis week in war. bin Laden's last victory. On the consistency of Liberal interventionists. All good Democrats applaud Republicans caving in phony war. Fiscal farce, failure, fantasy & fornication. No different whined at than withstoodFormula. Aaron Swartz and depression. What if Aaron Swartz wasn't white? Full disclosure, I'm a white liberal in academia, but the two angles of the Swartz story that have driven my interest are, first, as always, the battle for control of the narrative (and the battle to be king of whichever narrative one promotes) when stories like this break and, second, government power in service of monetizing anything and everything, in this case the distribution of information. Drought. The sensual history of destruction. Programmed for primetime. Bourdieu, for those of you who do. epistemological performance.

UPDATE! RIP UPDATE! Landru remembers Weaver. My bachelor party: Rangers 8, Orioles 5 on 33rd Street w/Landru and Hamster.

Najar gone? Salihiless. World's largest library of animal sounds. Here's the weird thing - if I'm trying to change the color of the links on my PC at work I can in Firefox but can't in Chrome, if I tying the change the color of the links on my laptop I can't in Firefox but can in Chrome. I'd really like to believe that blooger is fucking with me, but can't. A yew tree and Hilary Mantel. Rosen on Chopin. Siouxsie in concert.


Bob Hicok

She does this thing. Our seventeen-
year-old dog. Our mostly deaf dog.
Our mostly dead dog, statistically
speaking. When I crouch.
When I put my mouth to her ear
and shout her name. She walks away.
Walks toward the nothing of speech.
She even trots down the drive, ears up,
as if my voice is coming home.
It’s like watching a child
believe in Christmas, right
before you burn the tree down.
Every time I do it, I think, this time
she’ll turn to me. This time
she’ll put voice to face. This time,
I’ll be absolved of decay.
Which is like being a child
who believes in Christmas
as the tree burns, as the drapes catch,
as Santa lights a smoke
with his blowtorch and asks, want one?


  1. Swartz pointlessly and deliberately violated IP law and killed himself to avoid the consequences. Since he clearly viewed his actions as some sort of civil disobedience (which, by definition, involves accepting the consequences of your disobedience), it's hard to see it as anything but a tragically misguided quest for glory, as self-shill. His story is about depression and apparent personality disorders, nothing more. Of course they were going to prosecute him. He was a dumbass who thought rules didn't apply to him and thought he and his supposed message (and as you and I have agreed in private, JSTOR was a really stupid fucking object/target for that message) were more important than other people making a living off of their IP. On top of the simple (and, again, utterly pointless) larceny, that's just fucking idiotic, compounded by the poor bastard's mental illness. Seizing on him as an anti-government hero is...ill-considered. The noise over him is masturbation.

  2. Also: yes, Blogger's fucking with you. You, Gregor S____, of M_______. Fucking. With you. You.

    It's not just Blogger. Everyone, everywhere, is no longer interested in their content's browser compatibility. Not even the fuckers who make the browser give a fuck about their app's compatibility about their own browser.

    It's enough to make a dinosaur very, very cranky.

    Also: It's not too late for you to note the most important news of the day, and to strongly suggest that all true sons of the state go out and find a pack of Raleighs.

  3. I was only an Orioles fan the last two seasons of Weaver's main run, converted from Pirate fan by a girl living in Towson who showed me Bawlmer plus going to Memorial with you and Hamster (and Handy Rardy).

  4. Yeah, y'know, Cletus there said something one drunken, stoned, quite possibly psychotropic night, something so gratuitously obscene that I wouldn't even say it here, not even for shock effect, that just so completely dominates my memory of him that I'll just stick to memories of Hamster and that Rubens girlie, if'n you don't mind.

  5. You forgot to mention the trip to The Block following that game, bdr. As Landru is my witness . . . .