- Fleabus, night before last. Best cat ever.
- And then I started to rank them - Fleabus Number 1, Clover Number 2, Napoleon Number 3 - and what the fuck is wrong with me?
- Olive has dropped a spot - she's developed a mean streak. She's simultaneously gotten smarter and funnier. Fine metaphors abound. I've dropped today's me three spots in my me ranking.
- Scapegoating is the cement of group identities.
- On political correctness, the straw man (and it's role in scapegoating).
- Underestimating Trump & Bannon and a pertinent follow-up w recent historical examples.
- There is nothing Democrats can do now, a friend, a polisciprof, said yesterday, to effectively derail anything Trump wants to do. That's not what I'm asking, I said. I know, she said.
- Reviving the art of threat inflation.
- Our dystopian future.
- The politics of (not) hope.
- So yesterday I snark tweeted Overlord James Fallows on his wail that facts don't matter anymore, re: duh, and then my mind immediately thought of Talking Heads' Cross-eyed and Painless, which once was one of my top fifteen most air-guitared songs for X-Date decades ago, and lordy, does it lumber like an arthritic fart. Fine metaphors abound.
- Dan's book officially released today!
- There's new Mary Ruefle?
- Sexton's Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty).
- My email tells me iTunes has dropped the new live 2014 Kate Bush into my possession. Three days ago someone tweeted a Kate Bush tweet in which she endorsed the Tory PM of Britain. I had never given a moment's thought to Kate Bush's political views - I assumed that if she did have political views they would be - what? - mine?
- So I'm gonna wait a few days to listen, cause this is nagging at me. Everyfuckingthing nags at me. I need think about this more, scribble about it in tablet. It's not changing anything, everything changes everything. What a dumb motherfucker.
DON'T BLAME ME, I VOTED FOR A HALLUCINATION
Someone’s baby don’t love him
no more no no no more
twangs a workman’s radio next door.
I recommend red and plenty of it.
What’s another identity crisis
more or less? Perhaps this night
is genuine and not another
fake-out rhyme for darkness,
not that anything won’t rhyme with darkness.
I worry about a tooth, worry if
this typewriter will ever achieve
escape velocity as long as my feet
hurt. I dread new shoes.
I dread multitudes yet
have zero capacity for solitude
which may put into perspective my
befriending squirrels, strays, starting
political feuds with kindergarteners.
Perspective is for sissies.
If you can’t draw a dodecagon
on the fly, you’ll never catch
a cloud convincing enough
to vanish in or one of those
50-foot sunflowers that ate Van Gogh.