- I've blog-exhausted the past two days what I was tabletizing again last night, have some links and songs and poems. We are heading, by the way, into the second slowest weekend of the year in Blegsylvania (only Thanksgiving weekend is deader), the Memorial Day weekend the official start of the Blog Days of Summer, so while I am willing to aggregate please remember there won't be much to aggregate.
- Time regained.
- The challenge of theoterrorism.
- Power and paranoia in an age of fiber optics.
- Alternative modernities or countermodernities.
- Capitalism and Christianity.
- Anarchism as common cause.
- The world turned upside-down.
- You don't have to be a monster to be a bigot. Kinsley as asshole, part one.
- Kinsley as asshole, part two.
- Talking heads.
- No, I don't believe she can.
- BroadSnark's things you might have missed.
- Eleven shows that wouldn't exist without Arrested Development.
- This is true: I'd never seen Arrested Development until a week ago when Planet began her campaign for her and me to watch them in order from start to end in preparation for its return. I'm not a cult-boy yet, don't think I'll be a cult-boy, but it does make me laugh.
- While I don't think Marnie Stern's song title is an allusion to Infinite Jest, the song itself is excellent ear candy:
Translated by Robert Pinsky, Robert Hass, and Renata Gorczynski
The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless towards the candle's flame.
Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.
I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.
But all of them would have one subject, desire,
Of only my own - but no, not at all; alas
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing it is late. And the truth is laborious.