- Alex Chilton born 65 years ago today. Holyfuck, I love Big Star.
- Badiou, for those of you who do, on the world post-Paris attacks.
- Resisting the coming barbarism.
- Saying nice things about Hillary Clinton. I can't go into details for reasons that will be obvious, and Elric and SeatSix can vouch the truth behind what necessarily will be vague, but I've an aunt, not a politico but well-ensconced and high at State who, asked again at Giftmas dinner, vouched that Hillary is indeed a good human and good soul and good manager, and my aunt, a lifelong Republican, will happily vote for Clinton.
- When I pointed out the Clinton IS a Republican in the same sense that my aunt is a Republican, my aunt said, True.
- I was twice email-ambushed by friends over the weekend: (1) yes, I'm not going to rehash the whole less-shittiness debate again, and (2) no, I'm not going to rehash the whole less-shittiness debate again.
- Nature's warning system.
- Triskelion intramurals in fuckrich Baltimore County.
- Hey, buy me a Man Utd Special One scarf, please, Brit buds?
- Turnt. Juliana Spahr.
- Responding. Juliana Spahr.
- Thrashing seems crazy. Juliana Spahr.
- Click for more Alex Chilton songs.
- One of my five favorite songs ever:
There is no Rescue Mission where it isn’t freezing
from the need that created it. The lost children
distill to pure chemical. Where Good is called No-Tone
it’s the one who cries out who doesn’t get a coat.
The children fuse colors because they don’t want to
separate. Daughters shot off of hydrants who cut
each other in the neck and gut, don’t care
which one of them will end up later in surgery.
And drugged sons pretending to be costumes,
well, they’re not welcome to comprehension either.
Why does a wild child confuse a moon
with a hole in his skin?
One was born soaked in gin.
His first sip was from a bottle of denial.
What can “leave me alone” mean after that?
The system is settled, dimensions fixed.
Another one’s hand feels like a starfish.
Makes me hysterical like the word perestroika.
But they all dig the way the pepper is rosy in the vodka.
It’s verbocity that creates jokers.
Brick and grit are the candy and frosting
where volunteers and teachers write cards that go:
“Donate books that say NOT and NO and poets
who say Urn instead of Oh.”
How do the children convert their troubles
into hip-hop? Dunno—but it’s wonderful.