Friday, April 8, 2011

The Kiosk Shutters Crash Down

This is true: this theme song post was supposed to be today's post but I had done all the linking while thinking about it, went to save it and mistakenly hit publish, and then, well, there's no graceful unpublish in blooger. The post then got buried by the post I had created for Wednesday, so here it is again for more time at top of blog:

I found cassettes a friend I haven't thought about in twenty years gave me while looking for something else I didn't find. Isn't it always? Even if I still owned a cassette player the tapes would break. Song and song and song and song and song and song and song and song and song and song and song and song and song. Holyfuck.

I also found my stash of Bill Nelson cassettes:

There. Worth listening to again yes? Also, don't plunge publish when you don't want to publish. Also, don't start a new Friday post after you fucked up and published the original Friday post Wednesday.

The dispute between Democrats and Republicans isn't ideological, it's interpretive dance. Look at the markers on the far Right drawn that will be abandoned when this round is over. They will be mainstream, with administration and Democratic consent, by Obama's second mid-term election.

Meanwhile, Blegsylvania is dying, and I woke up today surprisingly tired of doing my part, so, barring kaboom - yesterday their were calls across the cubicles, There's another earthquake in Japan! (we fucking orkorkork for disaster porn) - I'll be back Sunday morning driving even more readers away with a United-Gax wrap-up.


Elizabeth Bishop

This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards' strength;
fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,
—the vague, slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers
like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers,
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats,
our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths.

Today's a day when those who work
are idling. Those who played must work
and hurry, too, to get it downe,
with little dignity or none.
The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters
crash down. But anyway, in the night
the headlines wrote themselves, see, on the streets
and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment's splashed
even to the first floors of apartment houses.

This is a day that's beautiful as well,
and warm and clear. At seven o'clock I saw
the dogs being walked along the famous beach
as usual, in a shiny gray-green dawn,
leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.
The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish,
segmented rainbow steadily hung above it.
At eight two little boys were flying kites.


  1. Also, don't plunge publish when you don't want to publish.

    I've done it. Just delete the post, and when people are all like "what the hell, man?" just make like a Republican caught wearing diapers with a hooker.

  2. If HRC was prez? Unsubtle period jokes instead of unsubtle race references.

  3. If only they could get a federal grant for their interpretive d - oh, those cheeky bastards.

    Periods are where cooties come from.

    Re: being between books. Then there's the ILL-style ordering splurge and maximizing renewals of the tower of Babel 'cause you're sure you'll get around to them eventually oh shit it was due last week.

    Another United post? The birds of soccer and disaster porn killed by one stone. Chortle.

  4. I'm really not sure how John Boehner, et al, shutting down the Federal government because they despise women isn't ideological. But I'm not inclined to be unkind about my lack of understanding. At least not here.