My Fripp story, posted every Fripp birthday, today being his 68th: Fripp had a touring workshop called Guitar Craft and a performing ensemble, The League of Crafty Guitarists. A bunch of us (Elric, you were there, yes?) got in Phavid Dillips lime-green VW van and drove to an old yellow mansion in West Virginia, not far, past Harpers Ferry, up near Shepardstown. Phavid, who we thought an excellent guitarist - or at least the best guitarist we smoked dope with regularly - had been invited to sit in a circle of other guitarists with Robert Fripp leading the workshop. Incredibly cool actually. Guests were invited to sit in the circle; guess who refused. Afterward, going out for a smoke, I ran into Fripp on a porch and apologized. He asked me why I didn't sit in the circle. I said I didn't want to. He said, then you've nothing to apologize for, and shook my hand.
- Here are all 32 countries' home and away kits for next month's World Cup in Brazil, which this guy says won't happen. I'm sure Brazil's Triskelions have planned, are planning, and will continue to plan to make sure as brutally as is necessary the peasants don't ruin the Triskelions' games .
- When I go back to look at past birthday posts in May, I said at a drive-by one-drink everyone-busy Thursday Night Pints, I am reminded that I have Bleggal Seasonal Disorder, brought on by the Blog Days of Summer in Dead Blegsylvania, cause I yodel the same woes and gags every May. L said, maybe you should get new gags. I love L. So what are you going to do tomorrow, K asked. I said, after the traditional Fripp birthday paragraph I think I'll use the lameass Triskelion Star Trek allusion to describe not only the assholes who run Brazil but the evil motherfuckers that run FIFA, post a link to 32 of the lamest home and away kits imaginable (the USA road kit is a Dominos delivery shirt) to show demonstrate yet again my addiction to uniforms, and assume all my readers get that I'm gently chiding myself for my complicity in all matters big and small in a grossly cynical and self-congratulatory fashion. Believe me, said L, assuming I get the gag is better than explaining the joke to me. Three weeks of ridiculously over-priced thimbles of amber Nyquil for L!
- America's Triskelions are planning and planning for the day America is Brazil.
- Family values in American foreign policy.
- Property of the state.
- Speak to me in many voices.
- It is no one's fault but my own that I didn't realize what a motherfucking grifter Greenwald is until the past year.
- What Piketty's neoliberal critics get wrong.
- So no, I'm not contemplating bleggalcide, though I do announce I reserve the right to days off. Now I need convince myself to do it.
- Jacob (IOZ) interviewed.
- :::wood s lot::: has more Bill Knott poems (+ other good stuff).
- City without a name.
- Gray wolf reappears.
- Prunella's latest playlist has Nirvana - I'm sorry, just skip past it - but is otherwise excellent.
- Yes, the title to the poem below is an allusion to Jack Spicer.
- Biblioklept requested the below:
I DID THIS TO MY VOCABULARY
The moon is my alibi. My tenders throw hissy fits.
My scalp’s at the foot of the precipice.
My lume is spento, there’s a creep in my cellar.
You can stand under my umbrella, Ella.
Who put pubic hair on my headphones?
Who put the ram in Ramallah?
I’m just sitting here spinning my spinning wheels—
where are the snow tires of tomorrow?
The llama is burning! My heart is an ovary!
Let’s chase dawn’s tail across state lines,
sing “Crimson and Clover” over and overy,
till wonders are taken for road signs.
My fish, fast and loose, shoot fish in a kettle.
The boys like the girls who like heavy metal.
On Sabbath, on Slayer, on Maiden and Venom,
on Motörhead, Leppard, and Zeppelin, and Mayhem . . .