Friday, February 4, 2011

Undressing to the Daily Logs of This Petty Boss

It's true I can make anything a metaphor for any worldview I'm yodeling, but Little Danny Snyder is going on his own radio station this afternoon to (I assume) escalate his war against the Washington City Paper. Is he an awesomely petty asshole out to destroy any dissent against his astonishing assholosity or is he an increasingly desperate asshole who's underwater in his debt services and whose radio stations he'd sell in a blink for seventy-five cents on the dollar if he could just create a media firestorm during February sweeps big enough to drive up ratings? Yes!

Sure it's 99% the former, but Death to Corporate's Either/Or, my fellow mofos!







Zen's reminder of Blogroll Amnesty Day and mention of Jon Swift remind me how generous Jon Swift was:
I was an even bigger nobody than I am now when Jon Smith, incredibly generous and Kind, reached out and contacted me.

I know that nine-tenths of the motives for why I bleg are base (and suspect the other one-tenth), but Al is a primary reason I try to be Kind here. And his blog was awesome.

I've still blogfriends (like Zen) who found me by Jon Swift's Blogroll Amnesty Day.

There are new additions to the left and right rolls. Please check them out.








THE ECSTASY


Phillip Lopate

You are not me, and I am never you
except for thirty seconds in a year
when ecstasy of coming,
laughing at the same time
or being cruel to know for certain
what the other's feeling
charge some recognition.

Not often when we talk though.
Undressing to the daily logs
of this petty boss, that compliment,
curling our lips at half-announced ambitions.

I tell you this during another night
of living next to you
without having said what was on our minds,
our bodies merely rubbing their fishy smells together.

The feelings keep piling up.
Will I ever find the time to tell you what is inside these trunks?

Maybe it's the fault of our language
but dreams are innocent and pictorial.
Then let our dreams speak for us
side by side, leg over leg,
an electroencephalographic kiss
flashing blue movies from temple
to temple, as we lie gagged in sleep.

Sleep on while I am talking
I am just arranging the curtains
over your naked breasts.
Love doesn't look too closely...
love looks very closely
the shock of beauty you gave me
the third rail that runs through our hospitality.
When will I follow you
over the fence to your tracks?

6 comments:

  1. You know who's another perfectly awful writer? Dimitri Nabokov, that's who. Shockingly so. His fishy smell is more like three days old. That's the view from Penny Lane, anyway.

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  2. I have a personal story of what a petty asshole li'l danny is, so there is zero doubt in my mind about that. But what I have a hard time figuring out is why he thinks that being called an asshole and a bad owner and a mean insufferable little prick is grounds for a libel action when you are an asshole and a bad owner and a mean insufferable little prick. The CP's defense lawyer is going to get the chance to prove that in court, and I, for one, am really jealous.

    drip

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  3. Frances, heretical as this may be, I never got the fuss over Big Nabokov.

    drip, it really is hard to conceive of any reason why Little Danny's doing this beyond petty vindictiveness. And you've piqued my curiosity.

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  4. I've always wanted to see the director's cut of that flick.

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  5. Yes on the vindictiveness, but you put your reputation up for scrutiny when you file this sort of action. If you are so upset that people call you a putz, why would you want a court reporter to write down all of the evidence that proves you are a putz? Stupid is not a word I would have used on the little prick, but this story has stupid written between every line. My li'l danny story is just a standard "treat people who work for you as badly as possible, especially when you don't have to" tale. It is not worth the electrons to share. And I said I envied the CO's lawyer, not the CP.

    drip

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  6. I don’t have the oomph to join you in full asbestos bra’n panty armor on that Cold War rampart, BDR, but The Original of Laura was [from the jacket copy] as “dark yet playful” as an insulin shot administered to an already comatose Sunny Von Bulow. Some of the index cards do unveil certain of his cheaper tricks, from the hanky to the panky; he can’t seem to help it in a Raskolnokovian kind of way. You might like this one in which he seems to make what I anticipate might be your argument (if your hair were already on fire). From index card Ex[3]:

    …what amazes one is that they were supposed to “represent an era” and that such representants could get away with the most execrable writing, provided they represented their times.

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