- That's Planet's latest piece. She's home for Thanksgiving break a week from tomorrow. Yay me!
- I get email, the synopsis? Who are these people you are talking to? Earthgirl is my wife, Planet is my daughter, Hamster is a dear friend, Landru is BFF. And no (from same email), I won't shut up about My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game, though a consensus that I should seems to be building. But no.
- I asked a WFMU DJ how new schedules work, do DJs jump or are they pushed off the schedule, and he told me no one is pushed. Listen to the first mic-break in Julie's show last night. Sure sounds like she was pushed (and she implies Meghan was pushed too - and listening to Meghan and reading her comment board as I type this suggests she was pushed too, though some jumping caused by bad is implied also ). I am ridiculously fascinated by this. I am stupid - I like to imagine WFMU as an attempt at the fairy tale utopia that has misguided my politics for four decades. I'm sure it's the same King of Anarchist shittiness as everywhere else. Fine metaphors abound.
- UPDATE! I've listened to the early-in-the-show mic-breaks from Meghan's show that I missed this morning, there is no doubt she was pushed. You can hear them at the fuck show link below, the playlist is clickable.
- Today's music stolen from today's Meghan's fuck show.
- Serendipity! Yes, Lambchop was ejected from a permanent seat on My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game, that doesn't mean I don't love Lambchop, and Yes! Meghan played the above on today's fuck show.
- Wall Street digs Hillarian Inevitability.
- Jim Webb, populist, greatest threat to Hillarian Inevitability? This is chum, chum. Yes, that's a Gravity's Rainbow allusion, chum. Also too an Against the Day allusion.
- The Horde of the Nibelungs.
- Taibbi and First Look: no one could have predicted.
- Short note on rereading Marilynne Robinson's Gilead. I saw a review of the new one or a Robinson profile or something a week or two ago and thought about taking on the trilogy but.... it's not that the novels interrogate religion and faith, it's that I've always read that they are so allusive to the Bible - the world's shittiest, most incoherent and crappily written work of fiction, so much that is utterly unreadable - that I always figured I wouldn't get Robinson's novels.
- But I am not worthy, I know.
- when he enters most intimately into what he calls himself....
- Could be undone with but a sneeze.
- Philandering Moon (We Are Not a Virus).
- What is Smut Clyde drinking now?
- Rebump: The Candidate for AUL for RICD.
- I am probably going to end up in Politics and Prose tonight, this review says of Preparation for the Next Life Atticus Lish has written a necessary novel, one with echoes of early Ken Kesey, of William T. Vollmann’s best writing, so.... I'll at least look for it.
- Robert Wyatt, for those of you who do.
- William Gass, for those of you who do.
- I have no idea why I haven't posted PJ Harvey in such a long time.
Don’t hurt the radio for
Solid testimony machines
Brush past it lightly
With a fine regard
For allowing its molecules
To remain 100% intact
Machines can think like Wittgenstein
And the radio’s a machine
Thinking softly to itself
Of the Midnight Flower
As her tawny parts unfold
In slow motion the boat
Rocks on the ocean
As her tawny parts unfold
The radio does something mental
To itself singingly
As her tawny parts unfold
Inside its wires
And steal away its heart
Two minutes after eleven
The color dream communicates itself
The ink falls on the paper as if magically
The scalp falls away
A pain is felt
Deep in the radio
I take out my larynx and put it on the blue chair
And do my dance for the radio
It’s my dance in which I kneel in front of the radio
And while remaining motionless elsewise
Force my eyeballs to come as close together as possible
While uttering a horrible and foreign word
Which I cannot repeat to you without now removing my larynx
And placing it on the blue chair
The blue chair isn’t here
So I can’t do that trick at the present time
The radio is thinking a few licks of its own
Pianistic thoughts attuned to tomorrow’s grammar
Beautiful spas of seltzery coition
Plucked notes like sandpaper attacked by Woody Woodpecker
The radio says Edwardian farmers from Minnesota march on the Mafia
Armed with millions of radioactive poker chips
The radio fears foul play
It turns impersonal
A piggy bank was smashed
A victim was found naked
Radio how can you tell me this
In such a chipper tone
Your structure of voices is a friend
The best kind
The kind one can turn on or off
Whenever one wants to
But that is wrong I know
For you will intensely to continue
And in a deeper way
Hours go by
And I watch you
As you diligently apply
A series of audible frequencies
To tiny receptors
Located inside my cranium
Resulting in much pleasure for someone
Who looks like me
Although he is seated about two inches to my left
And the both of us
Are listening to your every word
With a weird misapprehension
It’s the last of the tenth
And Harmon Killebrew is up
With a man aboard
He blasts a game-winning home run
The 559th of his career
But no one cares
Because the broadcast is studio-monitored for taping
To be replayed in 212 years
Heaven must be like this, radio
To not care about anything
Because it’s all being taped for replay much later
Heaven must be like this
For as her tawny parts unfold
The small lights swim roseate
As if of sepals were the tarp made
As it is invisibly unrolled
And sundown gasps its old Ray Charles 45 of Georgia
Only through your voice