Robert Smith was born fifty-four years ago today. All songs via Mr Alarum, he is/was a far bigger Cure fan than me if for no greater reason than Mr Alarum has a full head of hair (I've had the same haircut for thirty years) and better make-up skills than me, even the me of 1983 who couldn't have made myself look like Smith even had I tried.
The Cure hasn't aged well for me, or perhaps more accurately put, I haven't aged well for The Cure. If I had been told in 1983 that in 2013 I'd be listening to Buckingham/Nicks era Fleetwood Mac more than The Cure, the 1983 me, who had The Cure on the daily soundtrack and pretended to a deep disdain for Mac, would have laughed in disbelief. Still, they were on the daily soundtrack for at least a decade.
- This is true, Earthgirl and Planet can vouch, when we were on our San Francisco/NoCal vacation during 2008 Spring Break, Bill Clinton was holding some bullshit Democratic think-tank money-maker that all the media flew out to cover, and on our flight home was CNN's John King and the chronically fuckwadding Chris Matthews. Forgive me, I did not highjack the plane and crash it into the Rockies, nor have I run the motherfucker down on Nebraska or Massachusetts Avenue nor shivved him in Wagshals when he's waiting for a brisket sandwich. I haven't even told him he's a fuckwad. Yes, this is one of my favorite gags.
- Another old gag I haven't use for a while (maybe as long as this guy has been off-blog - welcome back): buying islands in Micronesia with no extradition treaties with U.S.
- American Liberalism is fucked.
- One the front page of Your Fucking Washington Post as I type this Sunday morning there are six lead stories and multiple bullets about the Boston bombing, not a single headline about the corporate bombing that wiped out a Texas city.
- Oligarghs standing on the deck of the Titanic.
- The Five Day War.
- Black and tan. No, I don't think so, no, I won't say no.
- Thought control and cynicism.
- OK, this is my favorite Cure song:
- Maggie's Sunday links!
- { feuilleton }'s Sunday links!
- Knausgaard, for those of you who do.
- A day on the Big Branch.
- Airport's latest playlist. Post a playlist, send me a playlist, I'll bump either.
- darkblack's Weekend Overnight.
- Speaking of my life's soundtrack, this guy turns sixty-seven today. None of you provided a playlist, oh well:
POST-LIVES THERAPY
Charles Simic
They explained to me the bloody bandages
On the floor in the maternity ward in Rochester NY,
Cured the backache I acquired bowing to my old master,
Made me stop putting thumbtacks around my bed.
They showed me an office on horseback,
Waving a sabre next to a burning farmhouse
And a barefoot woman in a nightgown,
Throwing stones after him and calling him Lucifer.
I was a straw-headed boy in patched overalls.
Come dark a chicken would roost in my hair.
Some even laid eggs as I played my ukelele
And my mother and father crossed themselves.
Next, I saw myself inside an abandoned gas station
Constructing a spaceship out of a coffin,
Red traffic cone, cement mixer and ear warmers,
When a church lady fainted seeing me in my underwear.
Some days, however, they opened door after door,
Always to a different room, and could not find me.
There'd be only a small squeak now and then,
As if a miner's canary caught in a mousetrap.
