Found my Bevis Frond stash looking for something else. Hey, Wednesday officially begins the five slowest days of the year in Blegsylvania, bar none, something that didn't occur to me until after I'd spent too much time on this post. One of the days, because I promise myself a Stereolab cascade every time I note that I don't play enough Stereolab here (like I did last week) considering how much I like and listen to Stereolab, so tomorrow or Friday, cascade. Requests solicited, I know at least one of you, if you're tuned in over the holiday, dig Stereolab. Requests for other cascades solicited, this being the slowest five days of the year in Blegsylvania.
- My recently deceased Aunt Julia (a run of 97 years, I'd buy that right now), a kind if stern women and the most devout conservative Catholic I've personally known would hate this pope, which means he must be preaching (as in sales-pitching for his Corporation, I know, don't get me wrong) something that pisses off devout conservative Catholics, which I admit I'm still small enough to enjoy.
- Pope Francis or Karl Marx? Posted not only because of the above but because (a) unkind comment about the fellow blogger and blog linked to related to blogging and my edict to myself not to link to her and (b) fucking facebook and (c) what does this say about my priorities between my bleggal principles and my jones for an echo to a point?
- My jones for an echo to a point: regardless of whether Jorge Bergoglio is sincere and genuinely desires to move the Catholic Church in the direction I would applaud or whether Jorge Bergoglio is a skilled and cynical barker preaching populist biscuits to the world's billions of disenfranchised that comprise the future survival of Catholic Corporation (and of course he is an infinite combination of both, like we all are), wouldn't it be nice if Jorge Bergoglio is enough of an independent rube that Catholic power-brokers are scared the puppet they cast as pope might break kayfabe?
- Obama's new constraint. Hey! yesterday was Kill List Tuesday!
- Obama threw a party! and held an off-the-record meeting with MSNBC hosts and liberal pundits on Thursday, POLITICO has learned. Present at the meeting: MSNBC's Ed Schultz and Lawrence O'Donnell, Washington Post economics blogger Ezra Klein, Mother Jones Washington bureau chief David Corn, Talking Points Memo editor and publisher Josh Marshall, ThinkProgress editor-in-chief Judd Legum, Atlantic senior editor Garance Franke-Ruta, Salon political writer Brian Beutler and Fox News contributor Juan Williams.
- Judd Legum? A peanut in the Beverly Hillbillies?
- A fake slum for luxury tourists?
- There are new sites on many of the blogrolls, please check them out when they rise to the top.
- Literary recipes (quite astonishing).
- One more new project.
- Steven Moore interview.
- I am unfamiliar with Elizabeth Jennings, which I can fix.
- I am unfamiliar with Mary Burger, which I can fix.
- The eight of swords.
- Mervyn Peake. I've a dear friend whose love of Peake has prompted me to try Gormenghast repeatedly, alas, without success.
- Tull, REM, Throwing Muses, and a rumination.
- Sunno))) which I haven't played here in a while, perhaps a cascade this weekend, the slowest five days of the year in Blegsylvania.
THE FUTURE OF TERROR 3
Matthea Harvey
The generalissimo's glands directed him
to and fro. Geronimo! said the über-goon
we called God, and we were off to the races.
Never mind that we could only grow
grey things, that inspecting the horses' gums
in the gymnasium predicted a jagged
road ahead. We were tired of hard news—
it helped to turn down our hearing aids.
We could already all do impeccable imitations
of the idiot, his insistent incisors working on
a steak as he said there's an intimacy to invasion.
That much was true. When we got jaded
about joyrides, we could always play games
in the kitchen garden with the prisoners.
Jump the Gun, Fine Kettle of Fish and Kick
the Kidney were our favorites. The laws
the linguists thought up were particularly
lissome, full of magical loopholes that
spit out medals. When we ran out of room
on our uniforms, we pinned them to
our mourning bands, to our mops.
We had made the big time, but night nipped
at our heels. The navigator's needle swung
strangely, oscillating between the oilwells
and ask again later. We tried to pull ourselves
together by practicing quarterback sneaks
along the pylons, but the race to the ravine
was starting to feel as real as the R.I.P.'s
and roses carved into rock. Suddenly the sight
of a schoolbag could send us scrambling.
to and fro. Geronimo! said the über-goon
we called God, and we were off to the races.
Never mind that we could only grow
grey things, that inspecting the horses' gums
in the gymnasium predicted a jagged
road ahead. We were tired of hard news—
it helped to turn down our hearing aids.
We could already all do impeccable imitations
of the idiot, his insistent incisors working on
a steak as he said there's an intimacy to invasion.
That much was true. When we got jaded
about joyrides, we could always play games
in the kitchen garden with the prisoners.
Jump the Gun, Fine Kettle of Fish and Kick
the Kidney were our favorites. The laws
the linguists thought up were particularly
lissome, full of magical loopholes that
spit out medals. When we ran out of room
on our uniforms, we pinned them to
our mourning bands, to our mops.
We had made the big time, but night nipped
at our heels. The navigator's needle swung
strangely, oscillating between the oilwells
and ask again later. We tried to pull ourselves
together by practicing quarterback sneaks
along the pylons, but the race to the ravine
was starting to feel as real as the R.I.P.'s
and roses carved into rock. Suddenly the sight
of a schoolbag could send us scrambling.
