How cool would it be if Hamster was a secret sleeper agent who has inside access to motherfucking Led Teonsis and I could wake Hamster (and we're seeing Bonny Prince Billy this coming Sunday, in case you were wondering what music is coming here soon if not next) and order him to slap motherfucking Led Teonsis, whose teams (and I dearly love people who love his stupid-ass ice-soccer team) can never win another fucking game not soon enough, with a three-day dead catfish, but Hamster isn't, though he does send this song and this song and this:
- Time never tells.
- Thugs of the organized criminal class.
- The World's Second Shittiest Human loves her some frothy mix of fecal matter and lube.
- Not only am I not giving money to or voting for a Democrat again, I haven't given money to or listened to or donated to motherfucking NPR in two years, nor will ever again.
- America is - everywhere is - a racist country.
- Harris-Perry poll.
- Why Liberals are lame.
- Why David Brooks is mendaciously lame.
- A friend asks me to remind you of October 2011.
- The kids are alright.
- Occupy Wall Street.
- Yeah, fuck Democrats, but still, motherfucking crackers.
- But still, motherfucking crackers.
- Keeping the lights on.
- How much money is Chris Christie spending on private investigators to investigate himself to gauge risk/reward?
- Rethinking Rockville Pike?
- Donate and adopt.
- Fuck City.
- A friend of twenty years has a new photography blog.
- New Bjork. I'll say it's me, but mehful.
- I listened to his Fifth last night, serendipitously.
- Mallet Quartet.
- Ten feet tall.
- I'm a mess.
- This week's new releases.
- Drosophila Melanogaster.
- Unsurprisingly I woke up with the below in my head - what a great fucking song - but look, two-minutes, thirty-seconds, the maximum length for a great pop song. Hear how it feels like a full meal while five minute songs feel like gluttony? Please please please, two minute thirty second or less great songs solicited.
APPALACHIAN FRONT
Robert Lewis Weeks
Panther lies next to Wharncliffe
and Wharncliffe next to Devon
and Devon next to Delorme.
In each a single fisherman casts
in the slow, black water of the Big Sandy.
Catfish is the whisker lurking
behind the bobbing cork.
He lives, it seems, in dense night
from day to day until the fisherman
from Wharncliffe pulls him out
to be fried in tin-roof, tarpaper shacks
from there to Matewan.
Politicians call this valley
a depressed area.
But, under the sun, my heart
will not have it so.
Straight up from the brackish water,
up the mountainside, green pointed trees
as close as bird's wings
grow fierce and clean,
and then for miles beside the tracks
the river moves faster over the rocks
and the water isn't black at all--
only the silt underneath.
The water over the rocks
is running clear and cold and pure.
