Tomorrow isn't Alex Chilton's birthday, L said at a Wednesday edition of Thursday Night Pints. I know, I said, I'm an idiot, I should have double-checked wikipedia against the birthday lists I use to remind me of these dates before asking for requests, I usually do, got busy, life is a fucking clusterfuck right now. What a shitty semester, said L, what a shitty Fall. We each recited our woes. What are you going to do about the Chilton? asked D. Play your requests tomorrow, I said. El Goodo is mine, Thank You Friends is L's, September Girls is D's, Kangaroo is mine again. K, not knowing who Alex Chilton was, was made to march to bar to retrieve a round of ridiculously priced Scotch. Jeebus, people, you drink this shit for fun? I said handing L the remainder of mine, getting up to get myself a pint.
- Politico-psychopathology (h/t, though yes, I know I posted a link to this back in September.)
- Why does neo-liberalism persist?
- Global capitalism and the Left.
- The well-orchestrated dance.
- You will be assimilated.
- A case to indict Obama.
- The princess and the pea-brain.
- Blinded by thrift store irony.
- Settlers of Catan: Greenhouse Rules.
- It brightens my day to see that either Man Fucking United or Real Fucking Madrid cannot win the Champions League.
- It brightens my day to see that either Fucking Milan or Fucking Barca cannot win the Champions League.
- Though there's no fucking chance, it brightens my day to daydream that Celtic takes out Fucking Juve.
- Riddled's beer fridge.
- 25 points about Infinite Jest. My advice? Google the calendar, get your chronology of sponsored years right from the start. Cheat, in other words.
- Just plain doomed.
- Badiou, for those of you who do.
- Anthony's links of the week.
- Assemblage #38.
- Dog poems.
- K, do you know who Joe Strummer was?
- History of electonic music. Holyfuck. Yes, I know I've linked before.
But where, oh where is the holy idiot,
truth teller and soothsayer, familiar
of spirits, rat eater, unhouseled wanderer
whose garble and babble fill rich and poor,
homeless and housed, with awe and fear?
Is he hiding in the pit or walkie-talkie,
its grid of holes insatiably hungry,
almost like a baby, sucking in the police sergeant's
quiet voice as he calls in reinforcements?
Oh holy idiot, is that you sniffing the wind
for the warm turd smell on the mounted policemen
backing their horses' quivering, skittish
haunches into the demonstrators' faces?
Oh little village among the villages,
the wild man, the holy Bedlamite is gone,
and nobody, now, knows where to find him....
Lying in mud? lying caked in mud, hair elfed into knots?
Some poor mad Tom roving the heath
for a warm soft place to lie his body down,
his speech obsessed with oaths, demons,
his tongue calling forth the Foul Fiend, Flibbertigibbet
as horse back slowly, slowly into the crowd
as he eats filth, he crams his ravenous mouth with filth -
and then he sits on his stool in the trampled hay
and deep-rutted mud, he anoints himself
with ashes and clay, he puts on his crown
of fumiter weed and holds his scepter
of a smouldering poker and calls the court to order.