Theme Song Futile Weekend Blegging April 26-27 2014

Patapsco Disc Golf Course, first round = 43343344/333433453 second round 433443333/333433434. Was using one of Dr Z's putters, heavier than I use, I was missing low, it was lame, since I left my new Aviar on my piano bench. I like almost unto love Patapsco, especially before the long grass and ticks, some great unique holes. 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 12, 13, 15, 17.  Only minus? Fucking Route 29 through East Moco.

United 4, Dallas 1. Motherfucking drench me in cold rain anytime for a 4-1 win. United has won as many league games by April 26 this year than it won all of last year. Happiest walk across to LOUD SIDE! I've seen in ages.

The Disc on the Installer's Desk

See that red star center top of map, off the Tobacco Farm Trail? I lost my Star Wedge there Sunday, the day after playing Seneca with SeatSix when I said, I don't need to order any discs until I get back to my standard level of sucky play. Earthgirl and I love the woods, we are determined to hike every weekend possible. We're old, it was a long winter, we're starting modestly so as to not get discouraged as we build up to lengthier, more ambitious hikes. Little Bennett Park is up 270 near the once charming now hideous town of Clarksburg. The highlighted are the three circuits we've done the past week. I often carry a disc with me when hiking to throw now and then. We were on an open stretch of trail, I threw the Wedge (an Innova Putt and Approach with a low profile and gentle fade), it hit the trail and skipped, I figured three feet, into crushed grass not yet Spring revived, I couldn't find the damn disc. So.

Ordered Sunday night, received yesterday. The blue is the replacement Wedge in the same plastic. The magenta is a beaded Aviar, also in the star plastic, the yellow is an old DX Wolf, I used to throw and roll Wolves all the time for their understability. Innova has a new plastic, the GStar, it's grippier than other plastics. I throw Roadrunners for stable drives, Beast for overstable drives and forehands, and you can't really tell because of the photo, but that Beast is a beautiful school bus yellow, next to Noxzema bottle blue my favorite color.  Best news of all?

The disc company sent me a Missing Low Is Lame sticker, I promptly adhered it to the bottom of the Aviar. It's true. Missing low is lame. A rule to live by. Fine metaphors abound. Here's a self-portrait in a sign about ant mounds, taken yesterday at Bennett.

• Quite accidental. Yes, there is a misspelling in the last sentence.
• Dead Blegsylvania? I've got your disc golf and hiking blegging, Dead Blegsylvania, because missing low is lame.
• A specter is haunting precarity. Since this talks about adjunct professors I am reminded that I am probably correct in maintaining my ban on writing about Hilltop. It has been a point of discussion multiple times at Whatever Night Pints.
• Nothing new under the sun.
• The world of tomorrow 75 years later.
• MOCO Green Party candidate.
• The Great Poets Brawl of 1968.
• The Beginning.
• I'm pretty sure I've posted the Matthea Harvey poem below, not apologizing - it occurred to me when writing this post, it fits this post - just acknowledging.

WAC-A-MOLE REALISM™

Matthea Harvey

At the carnival, Robo-Boy sees only things he recognizes. The Ferris Wheel is an overgrown version of his own bells and whistle eyes. His Flashers, his mother calls them. The Tilt-A-Whirl is the angle his head tilts when the Flirt Program goes into effect, usually in the vicinity of a Cindy or a Carrie, though once he found himself tilting at the school librarian which caused him to wheel in reverse into the Civil War section knocking over a cart of books that were waiting to be shelved under B. There’s a dangerously low stratosphere of pink cotton-candy clouds being carried around by the children. If Robo-Boy goes near them, the alarms will go off. It’s the kind of sticky that would cause joint-lock for sure. In a darker, safer corner Robo-Boy finds the Whack-A-Mole game. He pays a dollar and starts whacking the plastic moles on their heads each time they pop up from the much-dented log. He wins bear after bear. It’s only when he's lugging them home, the largest one skidding face-down along the sidewalk getting dirt on its white nose and light blue belly, that he remembers the program: Wac-A-Mole Realism™—the disc on the installer’s desk. Suddenly it all fits together: the way a deliciously strange thought will start wafting out of his unconscious—and then WHAM, it disappears.

Wind Grieves at the Corners of the House and Rain Distills Pity to a Purity That Is Irresistible and Poison

Played 27 yesterday with Mr Z. Seneca consists of three nine hole circuits that all start and end at the parking lot. It's brilliant. Normally we start on whichever of the three seems to be the least crowded, all were open today, I can't remember the last time I played 1-27 in order. 333564344 445644543 454433444. I suck, fucking Winter. Excellent time. Earthgirl started a new painting in the woods off the first tee.

This is true, Earthgirl can vouch. Mr Z. (who I met more than ten years ago when he was a bartender at Dietles) has a ten year old daughter with a woman from Minnesota. He mentioned to Earthgirl that the woman went to Northfield Not St Olaf. Earthgirl goes, Me too! They did the math, Mr Z. said her last name, Earthgirl screams LAURIE? I was reminded that infinity runs into the small as much as the large.







We Kensington to Frederick to Hagerstown to Hancock to Cumberland to Morgantown to Washington to Wheeling to Zanesville to Gambier to visit Planet today. Another way to put it is we 270 to 70 to 68 to 79 to 70 to 146 to 586 to 62 to Grove Church Road to 229 to 308 today. Slideshows when photographers provide me with them. Next few days, links if I fish, none if I don't. Travelogues of course: what viewership Napoleon and now disc golf haven't killed - thank you, regulars - slideshows and commentary on rural Ohio back roads will. Distill.

The soundtrack, at least today's, by Edict of Earthgirl, will include Lampchop. By my edict, you are going to hear a fuckload of Lambchop if you're tuning in the next few days.







AS EVER AS EVER

Charlie Smith

I step back from the homespun,
the naturally dyed. Fresh vegetables
unnerve me with their husks
and peelings and little ruddy bits
to save for compost. Grass stains
and leaves choke the gutters and
berries ponk ponk and you can't
remember what you were thinking
bark chafes and flesh if you eat it
lies like a lump of chalcedony in
your gut, stopping the action.
Wind grieves at the corners of
the house and rain distills pity
to a purity that is irresistible and
poison. All know a flower's dumb stare.
Fruit is home for small black worms.
Trees thrive in mass groupings
that close behind you and shudder
and stir complex imaginings
we are wholly unsuited for. Better
a quiet nook uptown. A room
with faded yellow light and Monk
on the piano. The buckle
and belting of life are beside the point.

But He Oughtn't Meddle with the Powder Puffs on the Golf Links - They Have Their Own Goats to Tame, Dirigibles to Situate

Holyfuck, Lonnie Holley, what a voice. ALSO! Deactivating the Napoleon Alert System. Freaking uncanny. Earthgirl can vouch. God Cat demands an immediate Woot the Fuck post, new here, not the tribute to God Cat, the unabashed Woot.

Also, Seneca today:

1:9 = 433343333
10:18 = 343334333
19:27 = 353343333

Mind, every basket in 1:18 was in A, but since Seneca went from 18 to 27 baskets I have never broke 90. Missed one putt all day. I should not play for weeks at a time more often. Having never broke 90 at Seneca before I never thought to offer wootribute to God Disc, but for those putts that clanged down and not out? I don't know if demands an immediate Woot the Fuck post but it's getting one now and from now on.







A VAGABOND

Jame Tate

A vagabond is a newcomer

in a heap of trouble.

He’s an eyeball at a peephole

that should be electrocuted.

He’s a leper in a textile mill

and likely to be beheaded, I mean,

given a liverwurst sandwich

on the break by the brook

where the loaves are sliced.

But he oughtn’t meddle

with the powder puffs on the golf links—

they have their own goats to tame,

dirigibles to situate.

He can act like an imbecile

if the climate is propitious,

a magnate of kidnap

paradising around the oily depot,

or a speck from a distant nebula

wishing to purchase a certain skyscraper ....

Well, if it’s permitted, then

let’s regulate him, let’s testify

against his thimble, and moderate his gloves

before they sew an apron.

The local minister is thinking

of moving to Holland, exchanging

his old ballads for some lingerie.

“Zatso!” says the vagabond.

Homeless, like wheat that tattletales

on the sermon, like wages swigged.

“Zatso, zatso, zatso!” cries the vagabond.

The minister reels under the weight

of his thumbs, the vagabond seems to have

jutted into his kernel, disturbed

his terminal core. Slowly, and with

trifling dignity, the minister removes

from his lapel his last campaign button:

Don’t Mess with Raymond, New Hampshire.

I Don't Know How to Say How I Feel Politely, or Poetically, or without the Jugular and Collapse of the Immediate Heart

So, follow-up on last post: Excellent suggestions, and thanks to all, please keep sending. The above is Mr Alarum's suggestion to my request for new noises for my ears. I've said this repeatedly lately both analog and digital, all I want to hear are things I haven't heard before. I'm not quite sure how much to plus or minus Thudner's suggestion below for the Jesse "The Body" Ventura cameos:





Also too, post title taken from same poem that can be read at the link backs. Also too, were you wondering Who Was Ioz? I wonder if that sign is at Schenley Park, I've never thrown there, hope to someday, I'm told it's nice, plays like Druid Hill. Also too, here's Prunella's playlist for 2012. Also too, regular programming resumes tomorrow, or not. Also too, here's one of Randal's suggestions.