Robert Fripp is 67 today. I don't memorize these dates, I use this and this to remind me of birthdays of novelists and poets and musicians who altered my comprehension of life significantly at first encounter and after, each May I'm pleasantly surprised to be reminded of the three day run of Byrne and Eno and Fripp. Here's my Fripp story, 2011 version, it's true, don't want to type it out again.
- Both Silber and Walt are worth reading on their own, but expect more of these articles from A-Listers down to fucks like me in this very post over the next week: we are in a Reassessment and Reifying Drill in which many of us, sensing a tiny paradigm swerve in zeitgeist - weather has changed if not our utter powerlessness before weather - update our CVs while reiterating our experience and prescient interpretations of Duh. We are pegging down - we are being pegged down: we'll adapt to this one-hertz-down frequency of Corporate-imposed shittiness, reestablishing our bonafides in our personal Stringtown ladder matches - because fine metaphors abound - reaffirming our love of the game we love to pretend we hate.
- UPDATE! How to interpret Obama.
- UPDATE! On pop anti-libertarianism.
- UPDATE! Does it follow?
- UPDATE! Sneezing animal competition!
- Not interested in being a good one.
- When he said balls it wasn't a request.
- Purple Line.
- Dan Brown's Lacan Conundrum.
- Lordy, my ears, best ears of my life. I so fucking indiscriminate, so much sounds so good, just make me dance, motherfuckers, the ladder matches, fuck that, fuck that won't win, fuck that will never win, I was trained to think fuck me if I embrace the fuck that.
- By request, Eno's Seven Deadly Finns.
- By request, Eno's Baby's on Fire.
- William Tyler, oft lead guitarist of Lambchop, live, interviewed.
WHEREABOUTS
Martha Zweig
Glove box rummages itself & dumps: fuzzy cough
droppings & stuck (menthol) among them a misdirectional
map intrigues me: say clotheslines’
fripperies hopping the breeze off the alley & garbage
lids clanging downhill to the sea: say there
in the sea floes
of penguins bobbing up to Argentine flamingos.
How hard is it to get lost? Listen to lost
useless horses whingeing for home & hames, a lost
grail stuffed with dirt deaf to human legends long
unstrung of sacred tune & lost,
children prodded along in the loops of war,
hopscotch mistake, the cast stone
skipped off the lake instead & lost the tournament
to the nice policeman there with the ice cream
precinct & his body buddy Dad. Dad declares he knows
by the spit & stripe of her this’s no one of his own,
his kids mope, & he goes. Ear to ear I must
look lucky at last, librarian
at the dictionary of things looking-up ever since
I hid in the glove box, pretending to be directions.
