Sure, who, Fleabus? Find me the honest broker who passes your sniff test re: Corporate whore and can run successfully against Corporate needing Corporate's help to confront Corporate, thus another Corporate whore. We're all whores. My whore's are older, fatter, lazier but just as craven in exact proportion to me.
O! this: You have to ask, what would it take for these news organizations and pundits to actually break with the convention that both sides are equally at fault? This is the clearest, starkest situation one can imagine short of civil war. If this won’t do it, nothing will. Krugman's obamapostasy will never be ready, though it'll be ready before he loses his naivete and understands why Corporate values his employment.
Meanwhile, new excellent if self-derivative Corporate whoring from Bjork:
- High Holy Day this Saturday.
- Sure. Who?
- Deceit.
- Scare tactics.
- Obamadick and the Left.
- Obama as James Buchanan: (Buchanan's) nevertheless commonly regarded as one of the worst Presidents in American history because of the way he chose to deal with the deepening crisis over slavery, states’ rights and secession. He entered office determined to broker a lasting compromise between the two sides, positioning himself as an uncommitted, neutral figure who could be a trustworthy arbiter. That stance ended up infuriating almost everyone involved in the conflict.
- The paradoxes of hope.
- Eric Schneiderman is the Left's best hope?
- An economy destroyed.
- Selling America short.
- So this is despair.
- Corporate got to Cantor.
- This. I have a neighbor, elderly, votes Pig, signs in yard and all, told me a couple of weeks ago Social Security is gonna destroy this country. I said, so you refuse to cash your checks, right? Hasn't talked to me since. Fucking pigs.
- Things you might have missed.
- Wanting for something to do.
- Perspective.
Today's Gaddis:
- You don't paint? You don't paint pictures yourself?
- I... no.
- Why not?
- I just... don't paint.
- Recktall Brown watched him wipe his perspiring forehead, and drink part of the brandy quickly. - All this work, all these books, you go to all this trouble just to patch up other people's work? How come you've never painted anything yourself?
- Well, I have, I have.
- What happened, you couldn't sell them?
- Well, no, but...
- Why not?
- Well people.... the critics... I was young then, I was still young.
- What are you now, about forty?
- Forty? Me, forty?
- Why not, you look forty. He took a cigar from his pocket, and continued his gaze at the man across from him. - So they didn't like your pictures. What happened, the critics laugh you out of town?
- Well they....
- And you got bitter because nobody gave your genius any credit.
- No, I...
- And you couldn't make any money on them, so you quit?
- No, it...
- And you decided the only thing you could do was patch up other people's pictures.
- No, damn it, I....
- Don't get mad, I'm just asking you.
- All Fleabus photos by Planet, yo.
- Cats are great. I realize ours aren't truly ferals anymore. Napoleon is ours, Creamy's made reappearances (she shows up in harsh weather), Frankie's a moron on wants to be pet but is to wussy to let us, and even Momcat is now walking towards us when she's hungry. All disappear for days, weeks at a time but all come home. Napoleon is the leanest, healthiest cat who's ever owned me.
- Also at the above link, in comments I put a song into your head since it was put in mine.
- Flavorful mechanics.
- Yes, I know I'm not worthy.
- It rarely occurs to us to go to Silver Spring.
- High Holy Day this Saturday.
- I've read preciselyall of zero of this year's Mann Booker long list.
- Josipovici, for those of you who do.
- Writer's block.
- Cocteau Twins meet Dead Can Dance.
- THE GLANDS! Seriously, I love The Glands.
WHAT YOU HAVE TO GET OVER
Dick Allen
Stumps. Railroad tracks. Early sicknesses,
the blue one, especially.
Your first love rounding a corner,
that snowy minefield.
Whether you step lightly or heavily,
you have to get over to that tree line a hundred yards in the distance
before evening falls,
letting no one see you wend your way,
that wonderful, old-fashioned word, wend,
meaning “to proceed, to journey,
to travel from one place to another,”
as from bed to breakfast, breakfast to imbecile work.
You have to get over your resentments,
the sun in the morning and the moon at night,
all those shadows of yourself you left behind
on odd little tables.
Tote that barge! Lift that bale! You have to
cross that river, jump that hedge, surmount that slogan,
crawl over this ego or that eros,
then hoist yourself up onto that yonder mountain.
Another old-fashioned word, yonder, meaning
“that indicated place, somewhere generally seen
or just beyond sight.” If you would recover,
you have to get over the shattered autos in the backwoods lot
to that bridge in the darkness
where the sentinels stand
guarding the border with their half-slung rifles,
warned of the likes of you.
