Not reactivating My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game beyond elevating Lampchop, who may already have a permanent seat, who remembers? from one of the permanent rotating members to an irrevocable permanent seat, Lambchop, the only drug that eases my bouts of dark despair at my dearth of hope for my daughter's life in the clusterfucked world I leave her (and I find myself wishing often for an on/off switch I could flip so I won't be a geriatric burden while she navigates the constantly worsening gruesomeness of the United States of Assholes). How's that for a Blog Days of Summer in a dying Stringtown, Blegsylvania post for you?
Gets better, me, every time I listen to that song. When my daughter is my age it will be 2059, the earth will still be here, will the world? The blog is getting more bot pings than ever, I told a friend, and what's truly weird now is that the latest mass sweep is not coming from the giant AI-shitlord bot farms but from seemingly private citizens on their home's local internet providers
each looking at an archived old post, is creepy, and my friend said, you know every fascist overlord and their shock troops are documenting and hording every nasty thing you say about them and I said yes, I'm counting on it, it's the only on/off switch I can contemplate enabling now even if I'm not the one that will throw *that* switch. More damning evidence of my treasonous opinions in grid below, but first
Too many people do not understand that Dump's Army is double-dipping with immigrants, it thrills the bass and just as importantly trains and gives ICE live target practice for when they're coming at you after the imminent coup
My compulsive response to the deadest Blog Days of Summer ever, exponentially deader than the deadest ever before (I'd like to take credit for here's decline but it's deader and getting deader everywhere), is of course to post an exceptionally self-indulgent autoblogographical bleggalgaze on a Friday, the deadest day of the week every week, and as many angry apocalyptic doomlinks I could collect since the last grid before pushing PUBLISH
I used to burn off my extra-manic impulses by pruning the blogrolls of the dying and dead and planting them in one of the two mortuary blogrolls but I've reached peak Fuck That though I assure you it has everynothing to do with the endlessly terminal ghost-towning of this particular Stringtown - it's not just here shit be dying, everynothing be dying everynowhere- and now I'd just rather bleat and bray, bleat and bray the name of my next band, here's the first album cover
Reminder: each post is a poem and each painting a headshot. In good news for me if not for you, L gave me a bag of acrylic paint tubes, this the first headshot using it (the red background), I can now go completely opaque (one can only get so opaque with gouache no matter how thick it's applied). You are warned. Hey, there's a new Water Damage album coming in October, they just released one song off it
Moderate Democrats are not afraid a leftist candidate will lose to a magachoad candidate in 2028 but that a leftist candidate will trounce a magachoad candidate in 2028
I contemplated not honoring all four birthdays of the Great Run of BLCKDGRD Holy Days that I have every year (minus a forgetful oops or two) for more than two decades here and the prior iterations of this current shitty blog and then decided to for more than just the sake of Fuck It, which sake I'll keep mum. I may read the copy of Melville's *Redburn* I found in a Michigan used books store last month sometime in the next year though reading the first ten pages the night after I found the copy did not inspire me. I can't imagine summoning the determined concentration necessary to reread Gass' *The Tunnel* (though rereading it as the clusterfuck worsens and assholes and assholedom are celebrated as heroes and morality of the clusterfuck is probably a good idea) but I might do *Omensetter's Luck* in the next year, and I didn't binge on Kate Bush or the Grateful Dead for Jerry because I can hear any song in my head by both any time I want. I have been Hüsker Dübingeing of late
A fine metaphors abounding work email chain today:
Dear Jeff,
I
hope you are doing well! I am writing with a question and I realize you
might not be the right person - or maybe there is no right person - but
is it possible to have a course packet made up, for purchase by
students? I am assigning several texts (short stories) in PDF format and
I don't want students staring at a computer in class, so I'd like to
make a hard-copy course packet. Is this something I would talk to you
about, or someone at the bookstore? I would provide the PDFs. Thank you
very much,
Sincerely,
Susanna
Hi Susanna, the
Library hasn't done course packets for well over 25 years because of
copyright (and the department that did them doesn't exist anymore). I
don't think even FedEx will do them any longer. I'd be surprised if the
bookstore will, though it doesn't hurt to ask.
Jeff
Hi Jeff,
OK, now I feel like an absolute dinosaur. No seriously, thank you for the response. I will figure out something else!
"The threat of fascism whips the electorate into line behind austerian liberals, while the resulting social misery and anomie provides the emotional mulch for rising fascism. Both prefer it if the left is excluded from the picture"
"Ralph Shortey, the freshman Republican who introduced the legislation, acknowledges he is not aware of any company in Oklahoma or elsewhere that is attempting to sell food that contains fetuses, but he said, "There is a potential that there are companies that are using aborted human babies in their research and development of basically enhancing flavor for artificial flavors."
I did finish Henry James' *The Ambassadors* but only because I felt morally obligated to keep my promise to Leona and Dennis and I'll NOT be reading another James, the fucker does muddle for motherfucking muddle's sake
*Punching the Clown*, the new Lambchop album, drops in seventeen days, of the three songs released so far this one slays me most, slays me, yes I already posted it before the BLCKDGRD Holy Day posts, the album won't save me soul but it will salve is a little
Tom Clark
THE COLOR OF STEPPED ON GUM
is the color of our times. The light of our times is the light in the 14th St. subway at 2 A.M. The air of our times is the air of the Greyhound depot, Market & 6th. It is prime time. A passed out sailor sits pitched forward like a sack of laundry in a plastic bucket seat his forehead resting on the movie of the week. The Long Goodbye
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