The Balding Month, the Grey Week, the Blue Morning, The Hour's Routine, the Minute's Passing Glance

The photo of the gargoyle from Salisbury Cathedral that was yesterday's header is no longer header. I may or not employ headers, but a header that big is annoying to me when I check in to see of I've posted anything new. Six, seven times yesterday, ping-in, scroll down, nothing new, fuck that shit.

New blogfriend Dusty, Hell most vocal Bitch has generously offered to build me a new template, adding "You know my site, so you know what I am capable of."

Sincere thanks. As we become old blogfriends you'll understand the impossibility of my accepting your generous and Kind offer for base and selfish reasons: I like the blegangst. I need the bleg to suck at fluctuating levels day by day for reasons blegometric that I understand and am constantly warned against writing about; I couldn't constantly write about them as much as I do if I didn't control the suck. It's fun! I might avail myself of you for some basic css to c/p now and then, please.

• I would like a css that plays a certain song when this site is pinged but ONLY if it cuts off when the reader clicks on a link to music or a KITH skit or something like.
• You don't need fucking roads, you fucking peasant, and the elites' maids and gardeners can fucking walk to the fucking gated compound.
• Why not Marx?
• Krugman's obamapostasy will never be ready.
• A friend fed this into the Google Fuhrer reader (I don't read Kevin Drum because...) but Kevin Drum's obamapostasy will never be ready. 
• You're going to vote again for Obamadick?
• Great Recesssion, Part Two.
• Ideology and economics. 
• Clash of isms.
• Patriotism: Dead End.
• Keep on spinning.
• David Brooks worships money.
• Company the cracker's keep, crackers the company keeps.
• The Murdoch scandal.
• I walk past the most expensive house in Georgetown all the time.
• Angry white cracker. 
• I dated a girl who lived on Stringtown Road.
• Emotional depth of cows.  
• Twelve theses about John Ashbery.
• Silliman's always generous lit-links.
• Cult of beauty.
• Mining the audio motherlode.
• Ingrid.
• Temple.
• One more colour.
• Yes I did move the soccer blog roll from left to right column. Why? 

REFUSING AT FIFTY-TWO TO WRITE SONNETS

Thomas Lynch

It came to him that he could nearly count
How many Octobers he had left to him
In increments of ten or, say, eleven
Thus: sixty-three, seventy-four, eighty-five.
He couldn't see himself at ninety-six—
Humanity's advances notwithstanding
In health-care, self-help, or new-age regimens—
What with his habits and family history,
The end he thought is nearer than you think.

The future, thus confined to its contingencies,
The present moment opens like a gift:
The balding month, the grey week, the blue morning,
The hour's routine, the minute's passing glance—
All seem like godsends now.  And what to make of this?
At the end the word that comes to him is Thanks.