Everybody knows that the bird is the word

This morning our young Buggins (aged 9 mos.) spoke what I count as her first real word, minus "Mama" and "Dada" and various attempts at her brother's name. That word was "bird," rendered "birr" in th'infant argot, but in proper context to be sure. The bird in question was one of a gaggle of regulation house sparrows loitering at our feeder for daughter's delight and no other good reason (for there is no other good reason any longer under the heavens).

It is raining. We are free.

You Tell 'Em It's Huddie Ledbetter Been Here an' Gone

Three performances by Leadbelly! His only known footage! Edited by Pete Seeger! From '45! Does "Pick a Bale of Cotton," "Grey Goose," and "Take This Hammer". Sublime! Can you see the scar on his neck where his throat was cut? Go! Find out!

Baphomite!

For every face of the Blessed Virgin in a plate of moldy flautas, I'€™m sure there'€™s one of these for underpublicized counterbalance. Say cheers to noted snake mite Ophionyssus natricis.
(Pic yanked from the pages of Reptile and Amphibian Parasites by Eric M. Rundquist.)

Any Relation to Opheera McDoom?

Al-Jazeera's most rabid detractors would have you believe that the network offers not news, but propaganda, a muezzin call for balls-out jihad. It can't help their case that their spokesman is named Jihad Ballout. Ah, for the innocent bygone years of Tyler Snortem-Phelps . . .

Baby Navel Jane Gazing!

My brainiful beauteous longtime co-everything has both a new alias and a long-awaited blog, Omphaloskepsis, added also to the "Loyalists" roster for your pleasure and convenience. My Jane baby's the sharpest cookie in the deck: incisive, insightful, and indestructable. Your day's not done till you've paid her a visit, O my best beloveds.

Her Only True Utterance to Date?

"My feet are the size of the Atlantic Ocean and my head the size of a pea."

--Ann Coulter, bitching about her Time Magazine cover photo, as quoted in the New York Daily News

Saturnight Wineheaded Listism

Other Titles Influenced by the Inexplicable Popularity of Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink: The Power of Thinking without Thinking

Ben: Hur without Hur

Moby: Dick without Dick
(opening line: "Ishmael: call me that, but don't call me that! Get it? Okay then.")

Howl: The Madness of Being Destroyed by Madness without Actually Being Destroyed, or Mad, or Any of That Shit

Go: Ancient Chinese Game of Strategy without Strategy (or Cool Looking Pieces, Like Chess)

Thelema: Magick without Tears, But with Really Goddamn Dry Eyeballs

Sniff: The Power of Being Blown without Having to Blow

Basic Instinct: The Power of Yet Again Removing the Power of Rational Thought without Having Rational Thought

Men: Hats without Hats

(with thanks to heatherloverbee for nos. 5.5, 6 & 7)

Slyboots from Muskogee

My confederate Billy Silvermen advised me some time ago how fine Merle Haggard’s interviews are. To the singular Mr. Silvermen I say, Quite so!

Q: In the Vietnam era, you, or at least your songs, seemed more aligned with the more conservative folks.
A: Well, now, wait a minute. I open my shows by saying, "Good evening, friends and conservatives." Listen, I was raised in a family that voted for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and he was a Democrat. My grandpa was a hard-nosed Republican, and he voted for Dewey when Truman ran. I'm Merle Haggard, and I believe in backing the commander-in-chief. I don't agree with him. There's a lot of things he did that I don't like and a lot of things he didn't do that I don't understand. But I'm not in a position to criticize, because I don't have all the facts. And they're certainly not going to give 'em to me.

More from Merle hereabouts.

Sea Power

"I will not take half a risk
I will not walk half-deceased
I believe that bravery exists"

--British Sea Power, "The Lonely"

Out of silence

David Baker read this site from time to time, I understand. If you are not my uncle--and no one is now, any more--you need not read the rest of this. To you, fond new member of the inexorable majority, I give my every thanks for all your unseen encouragement to us, all your precedents that made our years awakening to our natures more bearable. I love you, uncle, and never said so enough, and can never say so enough. But what can ever be enough? I remember you best outside the Stonewall, showing us the statues of two men, two women, erected to commemorate a day you missed but barely, when your contemporaries declared their kind of love would no longer be bullied into silence. Be sure in your safe death that I ever shall remain loud in my longing for love of every kind. Resquiat in goddamn pacis, again, again.

Le pape est mort

Zélie says it better than anyone.

And, more in line with my (a)theology: courage and long-may-you-run to Neil Young, recovering from aneurysm surgery.

American-Style Democracy

From Zimbabwe to my own beloved Washington State. . .