Maybe it's surrender, I said at Thursday Night Pints, asked by K why the retirements and extended vacations in my stringtown of Blegsylvania. Where last week's surprise TNP was joyous throughout, last night started sullen, yes warm, yes welcome, but sullen as a rerun. Jeb Fucking Bush, said D, Hillary Fucking Clinton, said L, Terry Fucking McAuliffe, I said, versus Kenasshole Cuccinelli, more lesser-evilism spinach for professional progressive Popeyes. Hahaha. Jesusshit, no wonder people are quitting, said L. Then, suddenly, happier. K said she would have held out but Whatshisname really wanted to know the gender of the child, may I suggest Jeffrina for your daughter's name, I am so happy she and you are so healthy.
- Lordy, you are going to hear BOATLOADS OF BEEFHEART over the next six weeks or so.
- This week in war.
- Dimensions of elite power.
- Is it worth fighting?
- Hey! Update on potential war against Syria!
- So, bleggalgazing - I'm still enjoying myself, I said when D asked if I was thinking about taking a break or wrapping it up. As I type this sentence Friday morning Stanley is purring on my lap, I've a cup of home-brewed coffee, I just made myself giggle.
- Mark your territory.
- As for why the stringtowns in Blegsylvania's Mon Valley are boarding up their windows at an ever increasing pace: I'd rather hear your theories.
- Hahaha!! Washington Post paywall. Hahaha!
- On papal tweeting.
- So scanning the bookshelves I found a mass market copy of Mieville's Perdido Street Station. I've heard the buzz about Mieville, I read and greatly enjoyed his recent Theses on Monsters, so I opened the novel and started reading. Chapter Two: A mad human scientist and his insect lover fuck. All my anti-scifi alarms claxoned and flashed and... I was OK, I survived, I kept reading. I make myself no promises.
- Beauty is a verb.
- Suburban Burma.
- The Pressure.
- Lydia Lunch live set from earlier this week.
- One last appreciation for Brubeck.
- Today's Zappadan.
- Oh dear, a deliciously vicious Zappa takedown.
- Eno's lost 1970's pop album.
- On Lucinda Williams, with songs.
- Yes, lots of Beefheart, though yesterday I was reminded of Zoviet France:
As the wave reaches the church, it
separates right and left and the edifice
is embraced. Confabulation fills the gap.
Still, the shadow-sound is only partial. Errors
in recognizing the surroundings are
paralleled by misjudgments of time and trouble.
The pulse advances, squeezes the particles to-
gether. Meaningless patterns distorted,
so as to make them look familiar.
When a long sea roller meets an isolated
rock in its passage, it rises against the rock,
clasps it all around. Past events, pushed.