Thursday, January 20, 2011

Although Still Trapped in the Millennium I Knew I Had Still Time to Blow Some Kisses

Lookit, I like the trap whose tripped latch I voluntarily spring on my complicitous ass each night before I go to sleep. I am a happy fat white middle-aged monogamously married heterosexual making an lower-upper middle class income with three years left on my mortgage and five years left before my pension is fully vested.

How's that for gratuitous! I like playing at apocalyptic poet in Necropolis, Blegsylvania (I'm going to be unable to resist writing about the ghost-towning of Blegsylvania, yo), but my genuine aargh is that the trap whose tripped latch I voluntary spring on my complicitous ass each night before I go to sleep will not be offered as standard for my daughter's and her kids' generations, and one aim of this shitty blog is documenting the deliberate and calculated dismantlement of that trap.

Jeebus, touch me in the right place at the right time. That would be nice.


Dorothea Tanning

No palms dolled up the tedium, no breathing wind.
No problem was the buzzword then, their way to go.

In truth, my case was black as sin, a thing to hide,
In that they feigned to find me sane, so not to know.

Someone brought in a medium. Anathema!
Some clown sewed up my eyes, he said it wouldn't show.

Confusing hands with craze, they howled, "Let's cut them off."
Confusing, too, their spies, my lies without an echo.

Time and again they stitched my mind with warp and woof.
Time pounded in my ruby heart, doing a slow,

Slow dim-out in that lupanar, slow take, slow fade,
Slow yawning like a door. "Hello," I said. "HELLO."

There, flung across the room between inside and out,
There must have shown itself to me. . .an afterglow.

With such a blaze to celebrate where centuries meet 
With time itself, how could I hesitate? Although

Still trapped in the millennium I knew I had 
Still time to blow some kisses. Look up, there they go!


  1. WASHINGTON -- President Barack Obama's apparent willingness to consider cuts in Social Security benefits may be winning him points with Washington elites, but it's killing him with voters, who see the program as inviolate and may start to wonder what the Democratic Party stands for, if not for Social Security.

    Damn, who could have predicted such a thing? Broder? Anyone? Milbank?

  2. If I post more sequin unicorns, perhaps in 2011 I can number zero, though Libby as Hypnotoad might be enough to influence the judges.

  3. Oh, bless Dramatic Alpaca's fuzzy little heart!

    I'd actually say fuck Rockville. Did you ever, in your whole Gophersbooger life, think of that property as effing Rockville? Did our twin classmate (and bandmates, I think?)denizens of the moocow farm next door go to fucking ROCKVILLE High School, or to Hamsters Used To Be Cool Until We Fell In Love With Alpacas High School, down the street? Did any of the 62 Kings, Thrones, Jacobses, and Aschenbachs with whom we went to school consider themselves (residentially) anything other than Gophersboogers?

    I rather think not. Fuck Rockville, and fuck Gophershole for fucking wanting to fucking be Rockville, for what, like 140 fucking years now?

    And fuck Phil Andrews and his little green bitches on the council for thinking MoCovians who don't clean houses or trim shrubbery will deign to ride the fucking bus. Assclowns.*

    Anger. Keep it local and obscure, bitchez. Except for the NFL.

    *Phil Andrews, et al, not MoCo's working people, lest someone think I've suddenly turned more elitist that I actually am. Which is, y'know, elitist enough.

  4. S'funny, I always considered that farm Gaithersburg not motherfucking Rockville - and before the annex wars, I think most people did. King Pontiac has always advertised itself in Gaithersburg.

    Frenda Benton dumped me for a day because her Michard Rontgomery friends ragged her for dating a farmer.

    There is no dumber a cop on the beat than a rotherfucking Mockville cop.

  5. No, most people didn't. Everything south of what is now Shady Grove Road was always Rockville. Also what now pretends to be North Bethesda -- everything north of Cedar Lane was Rockville. And there was nothing worth mentioning in Rockville.

  6. Nope. The Kings, Jacobs, Aschenbachs, all went to GHS. At best, what was King Farm could arguably be called Derwood, though kids from Derwood went to GHS before Magruder was built. Rockville, before the annex wars, didn't start until Gude Drive.

  7. I don't believe that Derwood actually exists, even though I drive through it often.

    Before before there was no Gude Drive.

    (There is a 'local' test in there. Pronounce Gude.)

  8. Goo-Dee. Gilbert's daughter Adrianne is my ex sister-in-law. True story.

  9. True indeed, vouched for and lived through.

    And we farmers, we who fought the long border wars in our gopher-colored homespun, ain't gonna listen to what some long-ago inner-city refugee to downcounty (downcounty!) has to say about the Gophershole-Springfield border. Please do not make me resort to the nuclear option on this one, Sasha. I know which high school's yearbook you appeared in, and though I love you beyond measure, that tidbit ain't gonna enhance your street cred.

    You are, of course, correct about the nonexistence of North Bethesda, Sasha. Same deal for North Potomac. It's Gaithersburg and Darnestown (which is now, for some reason, not as unfashionable as it was back in the days when Shady Grove Music Fair was an ugly thing y'all downcounty folk passed on your way to Gettysburg).

  10. Oh, and agreed in entirety about Springfield and Gophershole poe-leece, bDr. Numbers one and two on the list of Most Useless Law Enforcement Agencies in America, though we've also got legitimately strong opinions on the Maryland Metroburbia Jackbooted Parkbots, who at least do a very good job of preventing littering in their jurisdiction, saving them from comparison to the Rockville boys, who have become even better than the PG cops at preventing DWB.

  11. Um, I never appeared in the yearbook. You should have guessed that I avoided the photographers. I was anti-authoritarian even then, after all. And that high school had a George Lincoln Rockwell Fan Club branch that met daily on the quad back in the day.