David Byrne was born sixty years ago. I hereby reinstate High Holy Day of Egoslavia designation. Truth told, I'd soured, the music aged mustily, I aged, I Byrne-burned out on Byrne shatnerzing Byrne, but Talking Heads was once on the short rotation for my stupidass Desert Island Game, and while they aren't any longer, looking for songs last night reminded me why once they were.
- On Byrne's birthday.
- On Byrne's birthday.
- Love for sale.
- Bleggalgazing. There's a lot of what Versen has going around.
- A new anticapitalism?
- Harvey and Graeber.
- Land of the free.
- Pride in Obamasshole.
- She really is as shitty as Krauthammer.
- Whoop de doo.
- The great deceiver.
- Similarities.
- When it looks and feels like totalitarianism.
- Fat pig angry when Obama kills terrorists before getting chance to torture.
- Your daily duh.
- Fine metaphors abound.
- Motherfucking crackers.
- Nothing but flowers.
- Music, modernism, twilight of the elites. Yes, posted before.
- Back to zero.
- CCT!
- Fear and literature.
- WCW.
- What does the internet think about Pynchon?
- Krasznahorkai interview. Once I'm done Vineland, once I'm done the new Mantel (kaboom! it is), once I'm done Magic Kingdom, Krasznahorkai's Melancholy Resistance is next.
- ROXY MUSIC LIVE! 1972.
- The below and the down below are easily two of my twenty most air-guitared songs ever:
[UNTITLED]
Lyn Hejinian
I could instruct the children to tree on all sides
of trunk planking, I could instruct them to screw up
their eyes and pencil their routes illegibly. Go.
Be almost indistinguishable, cross diameters, be
unwiped and stringy and political on pathways. Now
turn the page. Draw pilots. Be unsettled, be weedy.
