2011/06/19

Day Two




London in February 2009 in rain in high 30s was MUCH easier to get around than June - jeebus, is it filled with motherfucking tourists, urp. Also, most expensive fucking rip-off of a city, except for the Tube, except if you actually go into a Sainsbury and buy your club soda (no one in England seems to know what club soda is - Oh, you mean sparkling?) and fruit there. It's almost as if the locals got together and said, let's base our economy on gouging motherfucking tourists! Two pounds for a 20 ounce Diet Coke? Urp.






Speaking of the Tube, the temptation to trip the fucking locals who shoulder you out of the way so they can run down the escalator is overwhelming. And the buskers, holyfuck, barring one, do they suck and their musical taste is worse. And London fucking hipsters differ from American fucking hipsters only by their British lardiness and squatness and affected English accents, luv.






Down to the Embankment for a walk-around then up to the British Museum (a very un-English like bargain at FREE!), where all the faces here had their photos taken. Saw perhaps just a tenth of it, Ancient Egypt up through late Medieval Europe and then a room full of unbelievably gorgeous Chinese ceramics.

Met up with the girls around six (they ran around on their own all day) and took a double-decker from Hammersmith through Kensington and Knightbridge to Hyde Park and walked to Buckingham Palace. Beautiful evening, sixty, breeze, no humidity. Unlike in Mocoland, yes? We were one of small percent who spoke English as would be expected - you won't find me at the Washington Monument. I assume it was mostly Russian I heard, though I can't tell one Slavic language from another. Then tried to get a cheap dinner but England closes at seven on Sunday nights. For a person who lives within ten miles of twenty 24-hour CVSs, this, even more than how fucking expensive London is, was the first culture shock. 






Off to Cambridge and York in half and hour. I'm guessing we'll get to our Leeds Ramada rooms late anyway (the bus leaves at eight, we're traveling 250 miles, five hours there, not counting the time n Cambridge and York), and who knows what the internet will be like, but fuck if I'm gonna pay ten pounds for 24 hours if I'm only going to use an hour of it, so even if we pull in before eight - and I bet a pint we don't - unless it's free or I can buy an hour for a pound or two, who knows when I next post more stuff that only me and mine and my dearest regulars want to read.

Oh! like the quality of these photos compared to those I posted with old camera? Me too! Double click on them, yo. They take fracking ten minutes to upload to both blooger and flickr (which is why there's no link to flickr for you - it would take eight hours to load 48).  Any suggestions for manipulating either the Canon or the blooger or the Dell to speed uploading solicited.



Day One




Trafalgar Square, Charing Cross last night, British Museum and Knightbridge today.

Also, I hear Charlie Davies is a diver and dived United to a road point. Terry Fucking Vaughn. Heh for us once.

2011/06/18

Didn't See Enough of Iceland to Decide If That's Where I'll Be an Ex-Pat

My intent was certainly not to make this the first post from Britain - I've been in the country a little over three hours (I was in Iceland for 45 minutes!), I haven't been sound asleep in over 28 hours, in fact I had just commented there would be nothing here until tomorrow - but stupidly I click the YFWP link and see this:

President Barack Obama decided he could continue the air war in Libya without congressional approval despite rulings to the contrary from Justice Department and Pentagon lawyers, according to published reports.

One issue was reported to be whether firing missiles from drones amounted to hostilities.

Think about that sentence, how many ways it sums up what a motherfucker Obama is, what a pussy. Recall how we'd have screamed ourselves happy righteousgasms five years ago by substituting the words George Bush for Barack Obama.

Motherfucking gasm-addicts swapping rooby gasms.




Nap, dinner, wander, sleep early, get up, avoid the motherfucking Washington Post.

2011/06/17

Soundlessly Among the Thunderheads and Passenger Jets as They Make Their Nightlong Journeys Across the Oceans and Steppes



The taxi picks us up at 4:00 PM, we fly out at 8:00, land in Reykjavik around midnight for an hour layover, land in London 3:00 AM body time, 8:00 local time Saturday morning. My druthers for Saturday is to ride the red buses around while in jet-lagged daze and try to get to sleep early. We'll see.

We've survived our first crisis. The twins (two of Planet's friends are identical twins who I can tell apart when they're together and almost always when they're apart) were going to end their trip in London by meeting their grandmother and chunneling to Paris, but Wednesday the grandmother fell and broke her ankle and can't meet them. I called Icelandic Air and got all the return information and forwarded it via Planet via the twins to the twins' parents, and they are booked on our plane from London to Reykjavik but must take two different planes, first to New York, then to Dulles. I have no idea how much Icelandic Air gouged them, but it must have been a mighty gouging. If this is the worst crisis of the trip, please and thank you.

I will be posting photos and comments about the trip, though how much and how often depends on both time and internet access. I'm assuming the hotels we'll be in will be happy to gouge me for wifi - I remember the first night in London when we went in 2009 I was shocked to find I needed to pay for wifi in the hotel and rice and water at the Indian restaurant, what a motherfucking American I was. I'm hoping there's too much to do to blog more than hurriedly - certainly, below is your last blogwhoring link-farming until I get back. If I hear music I've never heard before that I like and can find I'll post it, though regular musical programming won't return until I do. I've posted the poem as a link I would have posted Sunday if home below; it's truer than I wish it was. I'll not blog the two United games, on the road Saturday in Salt Lake and at home the following Saturday versus Houston. This guy will see that my ticket goes to good use. Bleggalgazing will continue.









THE STRANGE HOURS TRAVELERS KEEP

August Kleinzahler

The markets never rest
Always they are somewhere in agitation
Pork bellies, titanium, winter wheat
Electromagnetic ether peppered with photons
Treasure spewing from Unisys A-15 J mainframes
Across the firmament
Soundlessly among the thunderheads and passenger jets
As they make their nightlong journeys
Across the oceans and steppes


Nebulae, incandescent frog spawn of information
Trembling in the claw of Scorpio
Not an instant, then shooting away
Like an enormous cloud of starlings


Garbage scows move slowly down the estuary
The lights of the airport pulse in morning darkness
Food trucks, propane, tortured hearts
The reticent epistemologist parks
Gets out, checks the curb, reparks
Thunder of jets
Peristalsis of great capitals


How pretty in her tartan scarf
Her ruminative frown
Ambiguity and Reason
Locked in a slow, ferocious tango

Of if not, why not


2011/06/16

We Gave Our Dogs a Button to Sniff, or a Tissue, and They Bounded Off Confident in Their Training, in the Power of their Senses to Re-Create the Body



Thursday Night Pints was last night at my request: tomorrow we leave for England, I need tonight free in case because. Serendipitous: K (whom you've met) and special guest 2nd K, Moskovy-era Russian historian and good guy and soon to be obamapostate joined us, which they wouldn't have tonight.

Debate ensued. I said (I say this all the time here, forgive me), Obama's a motherfucking pig who believes and is invested in Corporate's crescendo to clusterfuck's clustergasm or he's a motherfucking cog, a bigger motherfucking cog than motherfucking you and me (and is fully interested in maintaining that hierarchy, you don't doubt that, do you?), but still a motherfucking cog or he's the moral agent you would have him be and doing the best possible honorable job he can within the parameters he can control: which is the worse scenario?

Well, it's not one or the other, 2nd K said, and I said sure, death to the either/or, that's granted, but you'd never vote for the first and why would you vote for the second? .06% less shitty debate ensued. K asked me how's blogging. I got a motherfucking email last week saying it's a shame I curse so motherfucking much, but other than that it's the motherfucking same every motherfucking day.










SEARCHERS

D. Nurkse

We gave our dogs a button to sniff,
or a tissue, and they bounded off
confident in their training,
in the power of their senses
to re-create the body
,

but after eighteen hours in rubble
where even steel was pulverized
they curled on themselves
and stared up at us
and in their soft huge eyes
we saw mirrored the longing for death
:

then we had to beg a stranger
to be a victim and crouch
behind a girder, and let the dogs
discover him and tug him
proudly, with suppressed yaps,
back to Command and the rows
of empty triage tables
.

But who will hide from us?
Who will keep digging for us
here in the cloud of ashes
?


2011/06/15

The Inevitable Gap Tragic

Consider this article about Corporate soccer as good a summary of why there's no reversal to the clusterfuck our puny species would design, much less implement.




That's Sarah, our oldest cat, once a wonder cat, who after four years of extraordinary sulking by extraordinarily petulant cat standards because of guess who and her idiot idolator has decided to fight for attention by almost wonder catting again - and talking, even now and then singing again - and wonderful. Not her last appearance.










CATASTROPHE THEORY III

Mary Jo Bang


Now we sit and play with a tiny toy
elephant that travels a taut string.
Now we are used and use in turn
each other. Our hats unravel
and that in itself is tragic.
To be lost. To have lost. Verbs


like veritable engines pulling the train
of thought forward. The hat is over-
turned and out comes a rabbit. Out comes a man
with a monocle. Out comes a Kaiser.
Yikes, it's history, that ceiling
comprised of recessed squares, each leg a lifeline
,

each lie a wife's leg. A pulled velvet cord
rings a bell and everyone comes running
to watch while a year plummets
into the countdown of an open mouth. A loop of razor wire
closes around the circumference of a shaken globe
of snow. Yellowed newsprint with its watery text
,

a latticework of shadow thrown
onto the clear screen of the prison wall.
From a mere idea comes the twine
that gives totality its name. What is a theory
but a tentacle reaching for a wafer of reason.
The inevitable gap tragic. Sure, tragic
.


2011/06/14

Fifty-Eight Today




High Holy Day. Above is this blog's Theme Song 2, and David Thomas' Pere Ubu is permanently in my Desert Island Two while the other one rotates among many.










Rhythm King.
We Have the Technology.
Breath. (Yes, the 106th time.)
Why Go It Alone?
This has to be on of my four most air-guitared songs ever.






Three songs from St Arkansas.
Two more songs from St Arkansas. The second, Phone Home Jonah please.



2011/06/13

If This Shows How the Sea Approaches Life in Its Propensity to Feed as Animal Entire, then Sharks Are Comforts, Feet Are Terrified, but They Vacation in the Mystery and Why Not?



I love being on vacation but hate going on vacation. I hate the run up to and especially the come down from. Hate loath abhor. Hate.

Here's the itinerary:

  • Saturday: Arrive in London approx noon, stay overnight. Hotel is in Kensington.
  • Sunday: All day in London.
  • Monday: Bus to Cambridge, York, Leeds. Dinner is included so I'm assuming we get to Leeds in time to eat and go to sleep.
  • Tuesday: Bus to Jedburgh, Melrose, Edinburgh.
  • Wednesday: All day in Edinburgh.
  • Thursday: Bus to Lake District, Chester, Wrexham. Dinner is included so see Leeds above.
  • Friday: Bus to Stratford, Cardiff.
  • Saturday: Bath, Stonehenge, Salisbury, London. Late, I imagine.
  • Sunday: Home.
  • Monday: Jetlag.

Suggestions sought for the whole day in London and the whole day in Edinburgh.* The girls (did I mention I'm responsible for three eighteen and one seventeen year old girl) will either do what Earthgirl and I am doing or do their own thing. I've been to The Tower and The Tate and The Eye. Earthgirl wants to do this and cool, I know this guy will suggest this and maybe, but all other suggestions solicited!

I know nothing about Edinburgh except that I think Hearts' maroon is motherfucking gorgeous and I want a shirt from the club store. Suggestions, please! Any other general advice re: not getting ripped off in Britain, please. And if you see a white bald American tourist getting off a tour bus in a United sweatshirt, please say Hi.











PLAGUE OF DEAD SHARKS

Alan Dugan

Who knows whether the sea heals or corrodes? 
The wading, wintered pack-beasts of the feet
slough off, in spring, the dead rind of the shoes'
leather detention, the big toe's yellow horn
shines with a natural polish, and the whole
person seems to profit. The opposite appears
when dead sharks wash up along the beach
for no known reason. What is more built
for winning than the swept-back teeth,
water-finished fins, and pure bad eyes
these old, efficient forms of appetite
are dressed in? Yet it looks as if the sea
digested what is wished of them with viral ease
and threw up what was left to stink and dry.
If this shows how the sea approaches life
in its propensity to feed as animal entire,
then sharks are comforts, feet are terrified,
but they vacation in the mystery and why not?
Who knows whether the sea heals or corrodes?:
what the sun burns up of it, the moon puts back
.


2011/06/12

United 2, San Jose 4



All day the weathermen called for torrential, possibly dangerous thunderstorms at or near game time. For the first time in memory I actually brought my rain gear into the stadium. Here's the sky ten minutes into the game:




Here's Benny saying word for word exactly what you thought he'd say:

It was very disappointing; we looked like young kids. This is going to happen, we have always said that we are going to have games when young kids make mistakes – that I can live with. But the lack of commitment at times was unacceptable. I think we started reading our own press a little bit, everybody thought we were on a roll, so now we don’t have to do what got us a little success – and it’s a little success. We are in the middle of the table if you take this whole league.

We think we are a little bit better than we are, so maybe it’s a good thing that we got punched in the face. Maybe we will get the message that even at home you don’t get games handed to you.

Maybe, but also San Jose had a plan and United never adjusted to it. Maybe, but when your withdrawn midfielders with major defensive responsibilities are a cooked Clyde Simms and Fred, when your two attacking midfielders won't track back on defense, your rookie back line is sliced open like a melon. (There was one sequence when Najar was stripped of the ball, and he tracked back forty yards on a sprint and brilliantly took the ball back, meaning he can play defense when he wants to, he just usually doesn't want to.) Maybe, but when you start three rookies and a journeyman on the back line in front of a second year keeper (and Hamid was awful, especially on the fourth goal) these nights happen. Maybe, but maybe the other team is bigger, faster, stronger, better organized, better.

That's all I got. A good time was had.

UPDATE!

Here's Fullback:

The young defense has had its teething troubles this season, and I was shocked that they managed to shut out LA last week on the road. Looks like they just deferred the inevitable. Three rooks and a USL guy arrayed ahead of a second-year keeper isn’t anybody’s recipe for consistency. It probably doesn’t help that they were maybe a little overconfident after a successful west coast swing to boot.

He also takes on the USMNT v Panama game. I'll start paying attention again to USMNT once Bob Bradley is fired. Here's hoping they don't make it out of group.

2011/06/11

To Be More Revolutionary Than a Nun Is Our Desire

A friend went to his opthamologist two months ago for a check-up, and when he complained that he couldn't read in bed anymore, the opthamologist suggested he get one. When I complained a week ago at Thursday Night Pints that I can't read in bed anymore, he loaned me his. Shazam! of not small sorts, and I now own this:





What a fucking revolutionary endorsing a consumerist boycott of those tools that repress us! I also claim a certain trip to England in a week and wanting to travel light as justification, and that I can and will share it with Earthgirl during and after the trip, but what a fucking revolutionary. I'm buying a camera this afternoon.

Hey! Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?




It's true! and there's a home game tonight! but there's horrible news:

D.C. United captain Dax McCarty has recovered from a groin ailment that sidelined him for both West Coast matches and is likely to start Saturday night against the San Jose Earthquakes at RFK Stadium.

GAH! Maybe they'll win anyway. A good time will be had regardless of result.










ON SEEING LARRY RIVER'S WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE RIVER AT THE MODERN MUSEUM OF ART

Frank O'Hara

Now that our hero has come back to us
in his white pants and we know his nose
trembling like a flag under fire,
we see the calm cold river is supporting
our forces, the beautiful history.

To be more revolutionary than a nun
is our desire, to be secular and intimate
as, when sighting a redcoat, you smile
and pull the trigger. Anxieties
and animosities, flaming and feeding

on theoretical considerations and
the jealous spiritualities of the abstract
the robot? they're smoke, billows above
the physical event. They have burned up.
See how free we are! as a nation of persons.

Dear father of our country, so alive
you must have lied incessantly to be
immediate, here are your bones crossed
on my breast like a rusty flintlock,
a pirate's flag, bravely specific

and ever so light in the misty glare
of a crossing by water in winter to a shore
other than that the bridge reaches for.
Don't shoot until, the white of freedom glinting
on your gun barrel, you see the general fear.


2011/06/10

If We're Not Supposed to Dance, Why All This Music?

Weiner was discussed at Thursday Night Pints, just two this week, me and D. We each told each other exactly what we could have guessed each of us would say re: Weiner. That's not precisely true: he had heard me tell the George Carlin joke about power before, how anyone driving slower than me is a jerk and anyone driving faster an asshole, though he hadn't heard me say that the only person I know who ever ran for any office who wasn't an asshole ran for office to keep a particular asshole out of office but also to prove a non-asshole could win, and he lost. 

What's it like in Blogland, he asked. Everyone's digitally competing to be the definer of the ultimate cultural significance of Weiner, I said. That everyone's digitally competing to be the definer of the ultimate cultural significance of Weiner instead of impotently yammering about about anything that matters IS the ultimate cultural significance of Weiner. My blog will say this Friday morning. You don't get a scotch for that, he said, though I got a charity pint for effort since I don't drink scotch.







TO BE ALIVE

Gregory Orr

To be alive: not just the carcass
But the spark.
That's crudely put, but…

If we're not supposed to dance,
Why all this music?


2011/06/09

She's Not Angry Exactly but All Business, Eating Them Right Off theTree, with Confidence, the Kind that Lets Her Spit Out the Bad Ones Clear of the Sidewalk into the Street



Things are busy. We leave for England a week from tomorrow, so I'm not only busy I'm weary of working the cud of aargh I've been working. Fuck the clusterfuck, I've a 90% chance of one of the best vacations ever and a 10% chance it's the worst, so I'm thinking about that. Plus, jeebus, the Blog Days of Summer. Wait for August, especially if there's not an apocalypse between now and then.

I'm buying a new camera, thinking this one maybe, though any suggestions in the same price range I solicit. Do remember, I'm a techtard, so if there's a better camera for my grade of tech idiot than this one, please let me know. Consider this forewarning on what this blog will be doing from next Friday to the second following Monday. Consider this post a forewarning of what this blog may be doing until then (though there will be a game recap Sunday - home game Saturday. I can't wait).








WOMAN ON TWENTY-SECOND EATING BERRIES

Stanley Plumly


She's not angry exactly but all business,
eating them right off the tree, with confidence,
the kind that lets her spit out the bad ones
clear of the sidewalk into the street. It's
sunny, though who can tell what she's tasting,
rowan or one of the serviceberries—
the animal at work, so everybody,
save the traffic, keeps a distance. She's picking
clean what the birds have left, and even,
in her hurry, a few dark leaves. In the air
the dusting of exhaust that still turns pennies
green, the way the cloudy surfaces
of things obscure their differences,
like the mock orange or the apple rose that
cracks the paving stone, rooted in the plaza.
No one will say your name, and when you come to
the door no one will know you, a parable
of the afterlife on earth. Poor grapes, poor crabs,
wild black cherry trees, on which some forty-six
or so species of birds have fed, some boy's dead
weight or the tragic summer lightning killing
the seed, how boyish now that hunger
to bring those branches down to scale,
to eat of that which otherwise was waste,
how natural this woman eating berries, how alone
.


2011/06/08

Me

I feel compelled to digitally stamp the time I posted this lame joke before not another single person out of ten billion people on the planet does, just in case:

  • Weiner dog sacked for posing in his underwear!
  • Donny Dog sacked for posing in her underwear!

Yes yes, it's not technically true, but Serendipity is great.

Its Hollow Spaces Seem Solids of Light Until It Wobbles and Begins to Whine

Either at this juncture of late-capitalist economics there's literally nothing any action by humans can do to alter the world economy's crash - it's Obama can't not won't - or he's been told to speed up the liquidation - Mitt Romney is equal in the polls? Like those free dinners at 1789, Obama?

Death to the Either/Or! Corporate knows how fucked up the clusterfuck is, and even if Obama knew how to fix it and had the political capital to fix it so your kids aren't blood farming in 2030, he wouldn't.










GYROSCOPE

Howard Nemerov

This admirable gadget, when it is
Wound on a string and spun with steady force,
Maintains its balance on most any smooth
Surface, pleasantly humming as it goes.
It is whirled not on a constant course, but still
Stands in unshivering integrity
For quite some time, meaning nothing perhaps
But being something agreeable to watch,
A silver nearly silence gleaning a still-
ness out of speed, composing unity
From spin, so that its hollow spaces seem
Solids of light, until it wobbles and
Begins to whine, and then with an odd lunge
Eccentric and reckless, it skids away
And drops dead into its own skeleton.


2011/06/07

Sunk Home, the True Key Slots to Its Matrix

I won't post here what's ignited my moleskine because I need and want to protect multiple parties' privacy. I can say entirely new galaxies in which to matrix my own complicity have been discovered, none of them good, all of them irresistibly juicy.

Hey! Look what Creamy brought us!




Walked to the door and dropped it. She loves us. She was at the party Sunday too.

Holyfuck! Look what I just found looking to complete a joke in links:











WEDDING THE LOCKSMITH'S DAUGHTER

Robin Robertson

The slow-grained slide to embed the blade 
of the key is a sheathing,
a gliding on graphite, pushing inside
to find the ribs of the lock
.

Sunk home, the true key slots to its matrix;
geared, tight-fitting, they turn
together, shooting the spring-lock,
throwing the bolt. Dactyls, iambics
--

the clinch of words--the hidden couplings
in the cased machine. A chime of sound
on sound: the way the sung note snibs on meaning


and holds. The lines engage and marry now,
their bells are keeping time;
the church doors close and open underground
.


2011/06/06

The Chimney Is Fifty Years Old and Slants to One Side

Twice in the same week in the morning before a celebratory event for Planet I post doom I wrote the night before. It wasn't intentional, just happened - I didn't think to notice until last night. When she turns my age in 2044....




The doom isn't (mostly) for you and me, though as I was deservedly chided, fuck gloom. And another wonderful day: Thank you very much to my dearest friends and family, all of whom recognize that if anyone can save the planet it's Planet.








THE PLAIN SENSE OF THINGS

Wallace Stevens

After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir
.

It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors
.

The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies
.

Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence


Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as a necessity requires
.