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

My avatar's nemesis' girlfriend (and one of my earliest crushes) is - holyfuck! - SEVENTY-NINE today. It's not an Egoslavian High Holiday, it's Arbor Day-like, though it makes me look at my odometer, and - holyfuck - 99 is 79.

• Destined to collapse.
• Rise of the neoliberal thought collective.
• I said something along the lines of this post's last sentence Saturday in a twoot.
• I said: Digby still thinks Obama is just a cynic by nature, not just a typical tyrant working the pragmatic.
• Liberal misogyny.
• Fucking professional progressives.
• On the above.
• Effing obamapologists.
• Taxing the rich.
• Symphonic fistfight.
• Watching the comment sections in the bigger joints in our Stringtown makes me glad I'm a tiny joint in our Stringtown.
• Occupy as a business model.
• Six things rich people need to stop saying.
• Occupy the garden.
• Homemaker.
• Breitbart's prodigies.
• And Stringtown be dying, yo, making the fights to be Frist Sycophant even more pathetically sad than the fights to be King of Anarchists.
• Something to do before I die.
• Here's Black and Red's DCU-KC game reax.
• Cruising 99.
• Ark 99.
• Awakening the inner analogue.
• Live Chuck Prophet!

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.