Purple Pressed Ass

Statements from the March 2010 Issue of Ranger Rick Magazine, Arranged from Least to Most Believable

2010-02-22T17:03:00.000-08:00

“Boobies have an impressive fishing style.”

“Boobies also have excellent vision . . .”

“Boobies are fishing pros.”

“They got the ‘booby’ part from long-ago Spanish explorers . . .”

“This booby is coming in for a landing . . .”

“There are also . . . brown, masked, Peruvian and Nazca boobies.”

“The boobies come together in big seaside colonies.”

“Not all boobies do the same dance . . .”

“Finally, a nearly naked chick breaks out . . .”

“Boobies live along the Pacific coast, from southern North America down to northern South America.”

“Brown boobies are the most widespread of all the boobies.”

“But no matter how different . . . they are all still bibbidy-bobbidy-BOOBIES!”

“Turn to page 16 for much more booby lore.”

Today's special three-year-old unwitting guest blogger is . . .

2008-03-10T19:10:00.000-07:00

The following's a little Xia story, as dictated to her preschool teacher.

Part I

Once upon a time there was a cat who rescued other cats. And she gave them nice kitty food. Actually it's me! Then she gave them a nice chewy ball, and then they played with all her fuzz balls, but she didn't mind. Then she let them leave. But she called "Kitties" and got them all on one leash. The end.

Part II

Once upon a time there was a cat who had a wand. She went around and played on her bed, and then she fluffed her room up with her tail. Then all the cats saved her, because she had a monster in her room who was going to eat her. The cats got there on time and saved her! The cat was a famous cat called "Cat on the Move."

Another one, thanks be to bourbon

2008-02-25T22:47:00.000-08:00

Silence equivalent to freedom. Ah, glory.

I learned yesterday that my dearest friends are to be returned to Seattle and to me. In joy then I let go of the bit I wrote when first they left. Welcome again, and gods speed, dearest necessary ones!

a valediction: of the christians

ten years a prelude to your parting,
baby-laden into the west,
out of the autumn once welcoming,
out of the torrents, the damp
that grew moss on our mustaches,
to sever the north from the northwest,
to brave again highway to almost home

almost I mourn, almost,
this dissection, allotment of dream
parceled to each now tighter tribe,
increasing each though in small walls,
small circles into longshot leaps,
city to city and decade to when?

out of the autumn once welcoming
to us, young vagabonds and lovers
and lovers-to-be, our touch then
so tentative each to each, and needed,
and believed: that if not free
or comforted we could be warmed
at least by wine by words by our
proximity, pragmatic on monday till
ecstatic by friday—oh,

to love was to survive was to
afford and nothing more? belie this,
spicy wine and grinning tryst,
leaps laughing over fences into cemetery
(how boldly we told death to fuck off then),
to live off meager muffins, cisco sips,
and pantomiming innocence adrift
in frozen metropole forced into home,
this drenchèd dismal grey roof dawn to gloam,
under whose frown we feared to be free,
still were freed till unafraid we stayed
we stayed and owned it all,
needle and beacon in our threadbare pocket
or elsewise-empty purse—sound citizens
we, glad sodden sousèd company—

and what’ve we conjured for legacy?
into the west toward the first city I ever aspired to, where we rehearsed (unknowing then) our emigration, read ‘candy’ between north beach and Chinatown while waiting for a cablecar (my first & last trip thereupon), where my future heather met raccoon by the beach—“silly raccoon”—and so won my love months before I knew it—
but not before the wind machine speedhelmed had delivered five pilgrims to the hawks’ great american aerie and alley and heaven thereafter—
not before you michael had schemed to desert, to slough off your uniform and go underground in berkeley, itself in hiding two decades or more—
and not before you’d grown there summer by summer, michael my bestman—
will so your wonderful rowan grow? and what luck to show such memory to your heatherlover own, at first within that selfsame summerboy home—
so much she’ll know so well,
and boy, and all . . .

lord all the love I’ve stolen from
you three (yes even you littleone,
a mere but mighty year into
a blazing bounty of centuries)—
lord how long you’ve sustained me,
raised me, made me believe
that belief is real,
is synchronized when love wills,
is twin and tangible when bound for the
(in damn-near unison) next of us:

our buggins and monkeyshines, mete to meet
the future’s greatest griefs and shatter them
to timid atoms! yes! but each to each,
and inbetween, the drift, whate’er it is
’tween cities (christ if I know anymore)—
yet may the magicks intercede
to hold these babies hopeful to
their origins their granted majesties,
that all these wanderings ahead of them
be foreordained (if but in blessèd
sentimental hindsight, yes,
when we are great with grey and care,
immobile save for wheelchair)—

lord all the love no lord
nor counterlord could contradict
betwixt us fated blessèd friends
no distance no remiss no parting
even so, but fastened forward
love to love,
inevitable as a drunken autumn

Not only is it a nifty calibre for a handgun, but . . .

2008-02-25T21:55:00.000-08:00

. . . 38 is also my age as of today. I've crested now: am more than half my father's age for the first time in my life (but still the exact same age as my twin sister). As a little self-indulgent autopresent, and to keep this blog wheezing along, I throw down with creaky arthritic fingers my favorite self-composed poem, see. So, see.

christen, with cigarette kisses,
me, unchristly gallant glowering out
my window to black wonder--
and hey while you're at it
toss me that Wild Turkey--
got words to waste
with that old benighted bird
or any other in his liquid flock--
got threats to taste
and memories to pound into
disconnected molecules . . .

as brutally usual as possible

Infern Ham Paean

2008-02-22T12:51:00.000-08:00

So a friend of mine's been daily sending a blasphemous prayer into the MySpace aethyr--prayers to Satan, to Iblis, against Christ and Mary and so on. I sent him the following gentle ribbing (not the Trojan sort) and was surprised to hear his reply: "I love it! Can I post it?" But he didn't. So, here:

O guy on the can of Underwood-brand deviled ham,
oldest existing trademark still in use in the United States,
smear thy spicy piggy mischief
jambon de l'enfer
on all my friends and "friends"
at the Stygian picnic, bankside of th'accurst waters,
or at Boston's Russia Wharf in 1822--
anyway just be sure to smear that ham crap all over 'em,
get mustardseed all in their ears
and some B&G Sweet Midget Gherkins up the ol' Khyber
for good sticky measure
this vengeful quarter-to-three-ish

Back From the Beyond, with Company!

2008-02-20T17:45:00.000-08:00

I just couldn't stay away . . . and neither could Sefira Sofia.
Born: 2/9/2008, 9:50 pm
Birth weight: 9.5 lbs
Cuteness: Oh, my, yes
Destiny: Empress of everything!

What Businessmen Tell Me

2007-07-06T23:58:00.000-07:00

From the national bestseller Getting To Yes: Negotiating Agreement Without Giving In: "Either we have free will or it is determined that we behave as we do. In either case, we make choices" (p. 53; derisive emphasis added).

slight return + more freud

2006-12-23T01:41:00.000-08:00

Jesus, is that the time?

Yeah, I've been away from these sweet keys for so long. Apologies to anyone who kept checking in here. The U. had its brutal way with whatever percentage of my mind I could muster daily; dread MySpace done robbed the rest of my leisure, to no good effect I might add. But did I come through reeking like a rosy nose any damn how? Indeed, despite almost three months of having to ingest/digest/autosuggest such nuggets as follows:

The terror of Medusa is the terror of castration that is linked to the sight of something . . . becoming stiff . . . Thus in the original situation it offers consolation to the spectator: he is still in possession of a penis, and the stiffening reassures him of the fact. To display the penis (or any of its surrogates) is to say: "I am not afraid of you. I defy you. I have a penis."

--Sigmund Freud, as quoted in Ranjana Khanna, Dark Continents: Psychoanalysis and Colonialism, p.46

grinding the nosestone

2006-09-30T23:54:00.000-07:00

Sleeve's back at the University, having taken on too many credits with too few minutes free in a week, as expected. Thus, this little relatively frantic blogging period may end or get question marked anyway. I'll try to dribble herein little bits of academic idiocy I believe warrant admission--such as the following, assigned for a class on the history of psychoanalysis:

It is well known that gastric pains occur especially often in those who masturbate. According to a personal communication made to me by Wilhelm Fliess, it is precisely gastralgias of this character which can be interrupted by an application of cocaine to the "gastric spot" discovered by him in the nose, and which can be cured by the cauterization of the same spot.

--Sigmund Freud, Fragment of an Analysis of a Case of Hysteria ("Dora")

Gesundheit! and cheers, sweet everyone.

Unnecessarily Bitchy List of the Other Man

2006-09-24T11:58:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to keep this blog from flopping to rotten nada again, here's a special, previously unreleased Sleeve Consequences B-side for your consideration, O my lovely reader(s).

Earlier Incarnations of the Band, “Sunburned Hand of the Man”

Sunburned Hand of the Bloody Sunburned Hand of the Man
Sunstroked Cock of the Jock
Extremely Low Frequency-Pummeled Eardrums of the Bum
Frostbitten Tits of Kurt Schwitters
Psoriatic Metathorax of the Lorax
Dadburned Rat’s Ass of Randy Jackson
Moon-Tanned Glans Jammed Up Your Bam-Ba-Lam
Sunburned Hand of the Really Shitty Name for a Band
(who, admittedly, I’ve not heard a single note by, so should probably lay off)
Waterlogged Blog of the Goddamn Guy Without a Job

Zorn With a Silver Spoon

2006-09-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to John Zorn, my favorite contemporary sax bastard and one of the only performers to physically hurt me with live music alone. Five hundred grand'll buy a lot of sax reed thingies.

An upside to the last two years?

2006-09-19T14:48:00.000-07:00

Quoth Jeff Cohen, in his new tome Cable News Confidential:

For two decades, I’ve been preoccupied with one issue above all others: that both ends of the political spectrum get their say in the media. One reason (among many) that I worked so hard to retire George W. Bush in 2004 was my nightmare that a defeated John Kerry would be hired by cable news to represent “the left” day after day on a TV debate show.

Yes, well. Praise the Lord(s) for small boons.

(via Tom Tomorrow, as so many good things are)

The Sick Wall of Chuchulain

2006-09-15T18:24:00.000-07:00

Sure, Chuchulain was the greatest of Ulster's heroes . . . but a UDA man? Some stretch, I think.

How many months has this page been silent? And this is what I choose to cough about now? Hmm . . . .

(Update: oh yeah: link via WFMU's Beware of the Blog. Cheers.)

Happiest Secondest Little-Girl Birthday . . .

2006-07-27T22:59:00.000-07:00

. . . to the genuine Buggins herself. How could this have happened in only a year? My dear, my dear, you are wonder its full self!

Ouch

2006-07-13T15:51:00.000-07:00

Jesus. Harsh company, Herr McSweeney.

And otherwise . . . I'm as sad as any ex-head over Syd, sure, and listened longingly last Tuesday, ached over "Golden Hair" . . . How wretched, then, that as tribute such papers as the Independent printed the whole of the lyrics to "Wish You Were Here", as not penned by Syd. (Link not provided; here's some extra contempt instead.) Look, man, that mawkish bollocks has nothing on what should be his genuine epitaph, "Octopus." Yea but it took his dear death for me to look up

hey ho, huff the Talbot
Cheat! [or cheetah] he cried shouting [or shouted] kangaroo
so [or it's] true in [or so through] their tree they cried . . .

Err . . . on second thought, no link there neither. Sorry and thanks, sweet Sydney.

Fremont shots

2006-06-20T18:58:00.000-07:00

I finally uploaded pics from last weekend's Fremont Summer Solstice Parade. All y'all Seattle expats may enjoy gawking thereupon.

And hey, dig, sorry for the silence up here. I've had a sore throat, see.

More confusions, stem cell transfusions . . .

2006-06-02T00:41:00.000-07:00

I ain't one for prayin', but will pray anyway any way I know or can improvise for Mr. Arthur Lee, who's gone in just under forty years from music pioneer to last-ditch stem cell Hail Mary pioneer.

Doctors estimate Lee has a 10 to 20 percent chance of long-term survival. "If we don't do the transplant his chances of surviving are zero percent," said Dr. Furhan Yunus, cancer institute transplant program director.

Some odds. Lee's been through various hells inbetween: addiction, prison, commercial disaster. But any god worth his baraka would welcome him for Forever Changes, for being covered by Mazzy Star ("Five String Serenade"), and now for these words:

"All kinds of things I've had to deal with in my life," Lee said. "It is much better the way I've known life. Those hardships make things easier.

"But for this disease I never would have known I was loved this much."

I have so much to learn of courage. May I have till at least sixty-one to study.

I should add that the headline's a paraphrase of Love's "A House Is Not a Motel," the one sure-thing lullaby that sung ineptly by me even would calm my dear Xia and drop her into the thick of dreams out of the most colicky conniption. It's crazy that such a song, laden with late-sixties heroin fear bad news death vibes would do this (another sample: "and the water's turned to blood, and if you don't think so, go turn on your tub"), but my Xee, with the clarity of infancy, understood instantly its calm center of comfort and beauty. If you don't know Love yet, you owe Xee, me, and Lee the discovery. Click on the YouTube panel linked above at least; go to a benefit show if your holdings exceed mine (and how, dear lord, could they not?).

Freedom's Sons

2006-05-23T01:47:00.000-07:00

Stream my favorite Clancy Brothers record (shamefully out of print)! Or if you're short on time, just Side 2. I've got the very vinyl copy I grew up with, which made it miraculously intact through a set of twins' twin mischiefs and a basement flood to arrive in the ears and I hope memories of my own children. "Lift your glasses, friends, with mine . . ."

Two Big Ladynoses?

2006-05-19T17:41:00.000-07:00

Deux Gros Nez is female, according to Rupert Murdoch. Had I known p'r'aps I woulda behaved more chivalrously therein. Or, of course, not.

(By the way, to the various few who've been bugging me to get with the MySpace soulsuck: I broke down after a few beers and attempted it last late night, but some glitch in it or I or both prevented me repeatedly from signing up. Thus I am desolate. Or chivalrous.)

Good bad news

2006-05-10T23:50:00.000-07:00

An old Seattle Central classmate (and occasional drinking buddy) of mine, Vance Wolfe, recently got fired for allowing his employees to attend Seattle's pro-immigrant march. I'm late to the details, having only heard about it today, and dig that this has been widely covered . . . but better late than red, or something, particularly if it's to give a good fellow like Vance a "goddamn right on!" or its surgical equivalent.

While there's much debate in the musty back webpages of Slog about the legitimacy of a Septieme boycott, I'm all in. First, my participation's due only to blind loyalty, not to any broader consideration. (And on this note: Mr. Wolfe is not merely a former restaurant manager, but a novelist and holder of a philosophy degree--and afficionado of Serge Gainsbourg. Add 'em up and boycott!) Second, I absolutely never go there in the first place, making such an "action" more than convenient.

killing refuckingdux

2006-04-25T23:52:00.000-07:00

We yes live nine blocks from this unlovely new bit of business, yes. What the hell is going on with the Hill of late? Or is this its true face, the inturning desparate anger on every Broadway corner now uncoiling?

Latter-Day Raskolnikov?

2006-04-20T17:09:00.000-07:00

I found this photograph in a copy of Crime and Punishment at the Capitol Hill Library. The bone, the watch, the dreads, the Dostoevsky . . . a tacit confession to something? Confess further in the comments if you come upon this, thou Seattle rascal!

That Sounds Like Howard, All Right

2006-04-18T22:38:00.000-07:00

. . . and by extension Bush, Blair, the PM of Estonia and so on. Concerning Australian troops being sent to the Solomon Islands in response to rioting,

Australian Prime Minister John Howard says those who oppose the election of Prime Minister Snyder Rini need to respect the democratic process.

He says his country will not stand idly by and let that happen.

link

They do not move.

2006-04-13T16:51:00.000-07:00

A miserable, wretched, futile, tedious—anything but happy!—100th would-be birthday to the shade of Samuel Beckett, the age's arch-disquieter, curer of comforts, cragfaced clawer after perfect tersity. Let us remember, when trying to fail better:

"Better on your arse than on your feet,
Flat on your back than either, dead than the lot."

Drinkin' & Bloggin'

2006-04-09T01:41:00.000-07:00

I'm just back from toasting the thirtieth birthday of a friend at a joint called Barça, a bimbo-beleaguered yuppiefuck joint on the Hill I've scrupulously avoided for years. I graciously put in at least half an hour before The Fear overtook me and jackbooted my jackass out into the rain, past the crowd of Voguegoths smoking (now juridically disallowed in bars everywhere in Washington State). Got a good look in passing at what used to be the Bad Juju Lounge, a former fine dive fulla punx and rivetheads where au hazard one could cop for earsplitting speedmetal, young drunk beauties of every gender race & orientation, and a nice solitary experience all at the same time. Now sadly this has reverted to its former self, an anonymous sparsely-attended gay bar whose name then and now I can't recall. Such is the course of all nostalgia, yes.

But see: before arriving, while strolling in fuzzy hat down Denny between 14th & 13th, I looked up & saw directly over my head a small rat on a lowhanging telephone wire, still and whiskery, tail barely twitching in barely a breeze, in rain's lull, afraid maybe with no forward or backward to get to in no hurry. I couldn't believe it'd died in such a position, so clapped my hands and stamped my feet till it twitched its ears and nose enough to convince me. And then, christ yes, I sang to it a little, in lieu of prayer I guess, some modified Leonard Cohen: "Like a rat on a wire, like a predicted drunk in a pre-midnight choir of one," and so on, trying in my plagiarized way to be free. Coming back the same way less than an hour later I found it gone so believed the best, whatever it is that can be best to a rat in the rain on a wire, right.

Then later rescued a nightcrawler from the sidewalk, then later still heard the wretched crunch of a snailshell under my foot. Who doesn't hate to be a killer of anything? Let those remorseful of tiny tragedy be the majority, and let me be numbered among them. Yes.

Four-Frigging-Oh!

2006-03-29T09:53:00.000-08:00

One of my (slothful bastard of a) professors waited till yesterday morning--two days into the next term, that is--to post his grades, goddammit; thus I didn't know till then that I'd copped for a 4.0 gpa last quarter! My first of those at university--and at the postcocious age of thirtysix. Perhaps by now I should have some more meaningful accomplishments to crow over, but this'll do for a while. Cheers, O most supportive world.

Killing

2006-03-26T13:08:00.000-08:00

Yes, we live eight blocks in a straight line from the big Capitol Hill massacre everyone's talking about.
And it's a beautiful day.

Pike Place Friday

2006-03-24T15:02:00.000-08:00

Taking Xia to Pike Place Market is invariably a magical experience. Today after stressy shrieky shopping for wee shoes we went down to decompress. Beautiful things included:

--The most planted daffodils I've seen in one place, along the rim of the Market's roof.

--A blondhaired hippy about to mount his motorscooter, beside him an adorable yappy dachshund wearing a little hat with military insignia. I examined this and asked of his master, "Corporal?" "No, sargeant," he said. "Every year I give him a promotion. He'll make captain in five years."

--Eating noodles at the Sanitary Market, and watching two old, disreputable-looking cowboys peddling second-hand stuff to the blaring tune of "Tumbling Tumbleweeds." To see various oddballs, street people, tourists, dry drunks and junkies greeting and making happy commerce while high-harmony yodeling accompanies . . . this is the genuine America!

--My small Xia riding on a handy rocking cow, then later pinching the big brass pig's nose at the Market's entrance.

--Coming home to discover that El Gran Puerco Blanco is back in business! Bloody exactly glad helloagains abouttimes and you're welcome, alright?

Bon Anniversaire, Ma Coeur Chinnici

2006-03-18T11:39:00.000-08:00

Good fond first birthday to the remarkable Corazon (here pictured a mere couple months after her mortal debut). Reno is richer immeasurably for her merry presence there. If you live there and ain't yet bought a house from her, why, you're no citizen at all! Hop to it!

Tom Tomorrow at Elliot Bay Bookstore

2006-03-17T15:33:00.000-08:00

According to his site, Tom Tomorrow of beloved comic & blog This Modern World will be speaking and signing and liberalizing and so forth at Elliot Bay Books in Pioneer Square, Seattle, Friday, March 31 at 6 pm. Elliot Bay's readings are always free, crowded, and good kicks, but I hardly ever remember to attend. (Neither do you; I never see you there anymore, whoever you are.) Let's hope I've reminded the both of us this time.

Siskel and Ebert overthrow the Protestants

2006-03-10T23:46:00.000-08:00

I reel, slackjawed and amazed, at this Siskel and Ebert feed from I dunno quite when in the lovely old '80s. Stay till the end! "I already shot my wad on the Protestants." Oh, Gene!
(via Bedazzled!)

glum for ducks, gaga for zuniga

2006-03-06T14:10:00.000-08:00

They drained the fountain at the University of Washington for "renovation," and now at least one pair of mated mallards has taken to wandering the campus. Last night I saw them outside the undergraduate library, paired in a tiny puddle left over from days-ago's rain. I was so filled with sorrow at the pitiful sight of these poor creatures, so dependant, so disinherited, that I could barely keep from weeping on the #43 Metro bus home. Finals week looms, Mike and family have returned to the motherland, and I am fragile as duck eggs, I guess.

Until I have anything worth digesting posted here (observe the Chinaman's chancy cows freezing over), do please examine with my hearty blessings the worthy work of Cheeto Zuniga, a brave new alias for a brand-new age of the same old bullshit. Here's hoping you make a mighty habit of this, mang, as your posts thus far are brilliant, the return of a bold voice long missed up Northward wayhereabouts. Dig.

Rightful Laudatories

2006-02-27T13:30:00.000-08:00

Due to some damn Blogger glitch, the picture Messiahbomb Michael Photoshnockered together for me, which I posted last time, ain't there any more. So here it is again, in its proper own entry. Thanks once more, Mr. Christordnance.

It's Mine!

2006-02-25T18:30:00.000-08:00

A beard for my birthday . . . or two, even: one for me and one for my heteronym, perhaps. Special thanks to the good ol' boys at Hamas. Regular ol' non-sarcastic thanks to Messiahbomb Michael (below) and Dijit 93 (right). I hereby cut you both in on any future royalties from the Barbasol company and exempt you from suicide bombings for life.

**update** see entry above

By Which I Establish Some Currency in Purgatory

2006-02-21T00:29:00.000-08:00

In long-delayed emulation of DJ Butternut, here's a damnably necessarily incomplete listing of all the live shows my thirtysix years can remember me seeing, in anal-compulsive/
receptive-attentive alphabetical fashion for your convenience. Revisions, as memory intercedes, forthcoming with forthright inevitability.

Acid Mothers Temple, Arab Strap, The Atomiks, Devendra Banhart, Belle & Sebastian, Jello Biafra, Black Uhuru, Bongzilla, The Boston Wranglers, David Bowie, BT Hiro (AKA Buddy Tokes & Krakatoa), Neko Case, Catherine Wheel, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, The Charming Snakes, Christian Death, The Church, Circus Contraption Band, Citizens’ Utilities, Clan Dyken, Comets on Fire, Crash Worship, Current 93, The Damned, Dead Can Dance, The Decembrists, Degenerate Art Ensemble, The Delgados, Amy Denio, Diamond Fist Werney, The Dirty Three, Bob Dylan, Earth, Electric Six, The Ex, Fugazi, Gas Huffer, Allen Ginsberg, Michael Gira and Angels of Light, Girl Trouble, Golden Delicious, Grand Champeen, The Grateful Dead, Macy Gray, Grey Mauzer, Gunshot Licker, PJ Harvey, Hawkwind, Helmet, Kristen Hersh, Bill Horist, Interpol, Iron and Wine, Jah Children Band, Waylon Jennings, Juned, Kinski, KMFDM, Mark Kozelek, Pete Krebs, Kronos Quartet, Kultur Shock, Mark Lanegan, Legendary Pink Dots, Lion of Judah, Los Lobos, Looper, Low, Lullabelle, Luna, Shane MacGowan & the Popes, Country Joe McDonald, Ministry, Moby Grape, Mogwai, Monster Magnet, Mother Tongue, Mudhoney, The Mudsharks, Murder City Devils, The Mutaytor, Negativland, New Model Army, Scout Niblett, Nile, No Means No, Gary Numan, Oingo Boingo, Paisley Brain Cells, Pedro the Lion, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, Pleaseeasaur, Iggy Pop (& again w/ the Stooges!), The Raveonettes, The Real Mckenzies, The Red Elvises, Red House Painters, The Rhythm Method, Richmond Fontaine, The Rolling Stones, Luther Russell, Saint Bushmill's Choir, Secret Chiefs 3, Sepultura, Shadow Project, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Sixteen Horsepower, Sleater-Kinney, Sleep, Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, Jimmy Smith, Regina Spektor, Spine*, Spiritualized, The Swans, Switchblade Symphony, The Tiger Lilies, Tin Hat Trio, Trance, The Turn Ons, Townes Van Zandt, Violent Green, Warlocks, Wesley Willis, Shannon Wright, and John Zorn.

*in my living room circa 1992

*******
Update 3/29: Added Catherine Wheel, from circa 1993.

*******
Update 6/23: Added Looper (from '99 I think) and Regina Spektor (from, like, last month).

beards not bombs

2006-02-20T14:33:00.000-08:00

I loathe Hamas, but goshamighty do I covet this fucker's beard!

The fucker in question is Sheik Mohammed Abu "Ragnar Redbeard" Tir (who hennas his chin, quoth Haaretz). The beard in question should be mine, MINE! Thus I appeal to those with skill in this matter: any chance of getting that thing Photoshlepped onto my own chin? (I lack ability, and time.) Select shots of my sleevy countenance can be found on my Flickr page, if any be bold & beardy enough to attempt this. Email or post in comments as you prefer.

Dick Season!

2006-02-13T09:25:00.000-08:00

Wait, it wasn't Scalia? Oh. Well, goddammit.

Whittington's bloody lucky this little accident didn't happen the other way around, what with armed Secret Service lurking in the quail-blinds or what-have-you (no, I hunt not at all). His face may now look like chicken pox, as his daughter asserts, but it would more've resembled a basketball hoop of gore (thx layne) had the trigger-butterfinger-ization been inversed.

And yeah, I'm still alive, just bogged down w/ fifteen texts for three classes, with brain burdened by th'imposition of an odious academic lexicon I can't help but absorb some of. More about that later, I hope. For now, my love to you, the patient ones.

It's done!

2005-12-10T18:54:00.000-08:00

I send last essay to professor. Now I drink, like in old country. Ha HA, yes!

Hem invective

2005-12-09T23:21:00.000-08:00

To celebrate the end of the quarter and perhaps my resultant return to blogging, here are two reasons to read that most American of Modernists, both from For Whom the Bell Tolls:

“ ‘What are you doing now, you lazy drunken obscene unsayable son of an unnameable unmarried gypsy obscenity?’ ” (ch. 2)

* * * *

“ ‘Yes’ (damn your bloody, red pig-eyes and your swine-bristly swine’s end of a face). ‘In the snow.’ (In the utterly-damned, ruinous, unexpected, slutting, defeat-conniving, bastard-cessery of the snow.)” (ch. 14)

Nineteenth-Century Mystery Syntax

2005-10-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

Oh, the bloody unfathomable delay. . . yes it's been weeks, but I've not been idle: every femtosecond not spent changing diapers I've spent reading the following sentence:

Leave us then attempt, in the way of modest inquiry, not to coerce and confine nature within the bounds of an arbitrary definition, but rather to find the boundaries which she herself has set, and erect a barrier round them; not calling mankind to account for having misapplied the word "poetry," but attempting to clear up to them the conception which they already attach to it, and to bring before their minds as a distinct principle that which, as a vague feeling, has really guided them in their actual employment of the term. (John Stuart Mill, "What Is Poetry?")

I have a three-word paper on this sentence due next month, so will surely not be blogging for yet more weeks to come.

Lowlife highlights

2005-09-26T13:40:00.000-07:00

Dear folk(s): I'm somewhat sorry for the long silence, and genuinely sorry for leaving that goddamn poem about "goddamn" up for so long. God damn, but there's no topic more topical than "goddam(n)," what? Your arrogant narrator's been a tangle-limbed distractopus these many days, as he's sweated over contract work, underprepared to return to college this Wednesday, seen a buncha bands, and changed a googolplex of soggy diapers. Some highlights of the past few weeks include:

--Catching Iggy & the Stooges, the Decembrists, and Kinski with Messiahbomb Michael at Bumbershoot. Iggy's bellowed "motherfucker"s could surely be heard all the way to Kentucky.

--Seeing Dead Can Dance at the Paramount with good son Elric--our first show jointly attended, and long overdue for us both. Elric's heard them his whole life, so was a day of reckoning for us both. And such a show! Less than half way in, I stopped believing Lisa Gerard to be a human being. Nothing recorded even suggests the sublime terror of that voice--not needing a microphone at all except for the soundboard recording--which combined with her flowing robes and pulpit-like music stand to suggest a church service which God attended in the poor man's pews. And paunchy bald greybeard Brendan wasn't bad either.

--Attending the blessed wedding of Oomingmak and her beloved Jmichiko, or rather of their secret identities. The Genuine Right Reverend Messiahbomb performed the service, held at a rustic hunter's lodge in the wild woody east, where children romped on the lawn for hours and everyone remembered what love was.

--Attending New Model Army's show at the Tractor--a letdown from their last more stripped-down and immediate affair, but still powerful... and Jesus, Justin's eyes!

So much for pleasures. This week's the one to consume me. I'll do my best to be less stingy about the coming details.

For J. in Reno

2005-09-09T00:48:00.000-07:00

must our origins absorb
again the best of us who'd fled
toward bright beckoning welcoming
(for instance toward the North)
only to lose, resoundingly lose
the dreams amidst the scavenging
for place and peace and love and food,
for cigarette nubs and beer money
and or the o'ercoming o'er
the lonely? our land of shameless
origin loves us not, and yet
the best the fragilest flock back,
as safety that's a lie is safety
still, and slow decomposition
beats starvation in a harness race,
I guess I curse I slurringly
conclude sans much a grudge--
I, remaining, steadfixed, stranded
and loving every strand of green
and raindrop and junky in this
city, understand I guess and
nod and say Godspeed your mad
steadfastness in my god damned
south home town.

2005-09-07T21:47:00.000-07:00

Fanatic congratulations to Antony and the Johnsons for bagging the Mercury Prize, which they deserved in spades. Further congratulations to the Kaiser Chiefs for not winning the Mercury Prize, an outcome they also deserved. And tough shit, M.I.A.

Bumber breezes

2005-09-04T14:10:00.000-07:00

Seattle music festival Bumbershoot is happening straight down the hill from me. I'm all set to go tomorrow, to catch Kinski, the Stooges, the Charming Snakes and other lovely stuff. Meanwhile I'm having my, uh, ear appetite well whetted by Talib Kweli, whose rhymes 'n' beats fly right through my window when the wind catches 'em right. Pretty astounding shit, for free especially. He's got some gorgeous backup soaring girl vocals now and again that whether sampled or live are astonishing. Plus hearing the word "motherfucker" barked rapidfire from a mile away is always thrilling. I love the idea of a whole neighborhood given forced exposure to quality hiphop, whether they like it or not.

R.L.I.P.

2005-09-03T14:41:00.000-07:00

Via Largehearted Boy, I learned ol' R.L. Burnside's gone as of last Thursday. The Telegraph has a fine obituary, including this little summation of the blues:

"I didn't mean to kill nobody," Burnside later said of the murder. "I just meant to shoot the sonofabitch in the head. Him dying was between him and the Lord."

A lost verse to "Boogie Chillun"?

Also, God save New Orleans, and may the devil excavate an even deeper hell for our worthless leader.

the center of your miiiinnnndddddd

2005-08-29T01:36:00.000-07:00

Compromise in all things. That's one of my many false mottoes, one that surely could alleviate so much civic rancor in America if implemented in force today. I speak of moderation, something I've rarely advocated before. But this nation, by the intractibility of its polarized political camps, faces a threat to its unity unseen since the Whiskey Rebellion or the Bay of Teapot-Domed Pigstamp Acts of ' 77 (the century escapes me). Only a groundswell resergence of good archaic Moderate Centrism can save our fragile union.

But being an inveterate radical firebrand, like you I suspect, I cannot let go of my need to rabble-rouse loudly in the streets and gutters. Thus I present

Moderate Centrist Protest Slogans

"Less war!"
"Limited self-government for Tibet!"
"Less blood for more oil!"
"Scale back the Occupation(s)!"
"Retry Mumia on a lesser charge--say, second-degree murder--NOW!"
"What do we want? Border skirmishes and saber-rattling at the most! When do we want it? Sooner or later!"
"Meat is, at best, involuntary manslaughter!"
"Special rights for sodomites? No! Decriminalized bisexual polygamy? Maybe!"
"Revolution, though not the sole solution, is the one I advocate stridently, yet respectfully!"
"Ban the bomb from certain nightclubs and local-access cable stations!"
"It's either a choice or a child!"
"Get mostly behind at least a few of our troops!"
"Yankee, go at least as far as the International Date Line!"
"Jesus mitigates."

Fourteen Years

2005-08-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

My number one son Elric is fourteen years old today. Fourteen! Today! But how? Just hours ago it seems he rode on my shoulders kicking and laughing as we sang "Yellow Submarine" and/or "Boris the Spider." Lord but I'm a lucky one, to see such an amazing nigh-on man come into his own before my wondering eyes. I love you so, mang, ese, Eeko, dream brother, best bold taller-than-father fellow of mine!

Should also nod skyward for the birthday of Grandfather Jack Meussner, nestled in the best of heavens with horses and fireflies and now his wife to keep him well outside of all time and age.

John Denver Radio Edit

2005-08-11T00:04:00.000-07:00

I know I'm a little late on this, but. . . while reading WFMU's coverage of the FCC's warming re-war on "fuck," I found, embedded in the comments, "Annie's Song (clean radio edit)". This is necessary, good people. Stab thy little arrow icon at the Real Audio link here and click the Christ out of it!

Hell Comes in Spurts

2005-08-04T12:30:00.000-07:00

Richard Hell discusses his new book in an interview with Uxorcide Girls, the choice bit of which is

RH: I’ve definitely done acid in my time. But I don’t know how to deal with the gay issue because to me it would be kind of creepy to say “no I’ve never had gay sex” because part of the whole point of the book was to challenge people with the idea of taking gay sex in stride. So, let me say this, all sex is gay sex.
DRE: What does that mean exactly?
RH: I think that’s definitive and doesn’t really require elaboration.

. . . and the rest of which is here.

Eff Yiz All, Eff Yiz All

2005-07-28T12:25:00.000-07:00

According to Wikipedia, brand-new Rob Zombie opus The Devil's Rejects has unseated Gary Oldman's 1997 Nil by Mouth as the film with the highest instance of the word "fuck": 560 utterances total, or 5.6 "fucks" per minute.
Jesus, who conducts this kind of research? My sixteen-year-old self was well into it. I tabulated the number of "fucks" in Platoon (unrememberable), number of people killed in Stallone's Cobra (well over 70) and Schwartzie's Raw Deal (only around 40), number of punches Rocky takes in the first round of the climactic fight in Rocky IV (at least 70, and from an opponent who earlier in the film had his punches measured at one thousand pounds of force each), and so on. But my stamina soon depleted, with some assistance from the demon cannabis no doubt. I recently tried to inventory the number of "goddams" in The Catcher in the Rye, but could only keep it up some thirty pages' worth. Surely the number exists on our great godly intra-web, should one need it. I leave it to the fortunate OCD few to soldier on, soldier on.

xee 'n' sleeve

2005-07-28T09:44:00.000-07:00

I meant this to accompany the birthday bellow-out below, but Flickr was passed out on glue last night.

Happy First, Buggiest Birthday

2005-07-27T22:07:00.000-07:00

. . . to my own little Xia Mara Beeswax!

But is HE a Seventh-Day Adventist?

2005-07-25T15:19:00.000-07:00

A Little More Catch-Up. . . with Hate!

2005-07-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

Again, this is something I meant to bring to the attention of Lower Blogolia last week. Its relevance to the human condition is evergreen, however.

Bands with "Hate" in Their Names Booked at Studio Seven This July

Hate Eternal
Hating Hillary
Hatefist
Turkish alt rock band self titled Yakup (assuming "yakup" is Turkish for "hate")

lovely as a green parakeet

2005-07-18T22:36:00.000-07:00

As it turned out, I did end up having as lovely a day as I'd lamented not having in the last post. True to form, it's taken me a mere week and a day to relate it, thus most of the details are gone to the breeze realms. I do remember it involved going to Woodland Park Zoo to check out their new feature, the dirty-sounding Willawong Station, where for an extra ducat one can hold up a seed-encrusted stick and welcome one of hundreds of parrotoids to settle thereon and have a snack. I can't recommend this highly enough. To have birds eating from one's hand, in company of one's lover and delighted baby girl, on a vaguely rainy day, after checking out the lemurs' new digs on Monkey Island. . . how can a day (and the resulting week plus one day) not be perfect?

2005-07-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

I could use a day as beautiful as this. Thanks for the daydreams, Frumious.

Whiskey Fizzles My List Before Your Very Eyes

2005-06-30T01:56:00.000-07:00

Too many critics, I think, rack up lists of favorite things (i.e. “My third-favorite ‘My Favorite Things’ is from Coltrane’s 11-18-62 Paris, second set”) without including absences; that is, their favorites among things they have imperfect or no knowledge of. To correct this to a degree, and to add something human to this blog for a change, I offer

My Favorite Movies That I’ve Never Seen, and Likely Never Will

The Dead Hate the Living
As this is my favorite movie title of all time, I’d hate to adulterate my appreciation of it by actually seeing the film. Plus, since that’s pretty much the summation of every horror movie ever made, I feel I’ve already seen it hundreds of times over.

Zorba the Greek
Having read Nikos Kazantzakis’ marvelous tale a couple times, I can’t imagine it filmed properly, nor imagine Anthony Quinn in the title role. But I grew up hearing the soundtrack, which featured snippets of dialog as intros to stirring bouzouki reels, and cannot now have dinner in a Greek restaurant, or hear the Pogues’ “Hell’s Ditch,” without thinking of the following:
Alan Bates: “Teach me to dance.”
Quinn: “Did you say---dance? Come on my boy!”

Zabriskie Point
I have no idea what this film’s about, but again, it’s a matter of soundtrack. I owned the cassette in my early twenties, and couldn’t imagine being that age without smoking dope and listening to obscure brilliant Pink Floyd tracks like “Heart Beat Pig Meat” and the dazzling understated “Crumbling Land” (“In his hand, a moving picture of the crumbling land…”).
Throw in John Fahey and Roscoe Holcomb and you’ve got a perfect movie—without the movie.

Only three, eh? But see—while trying to think of more, I stepped out on my balcony for a smoke and saw what I wish you could have seen, so I wouldn’t have to try to explain it: a moth circling the kitty-corner streetlamp, itself illuminated by its attractant such that it glowed just as brightly, as if on fire as it surely wished to be—a illusory firefly in a northern clime opposed to such phenomena. Beautiful, impossible, and surely a sign that I have to get my ass to bed posthaste. More to come, I’m sure: my favorite novels I never finished reading, my favorite baked manicotti recipes I ended up burning beyond edibility, and so on.

Quick List Slight Return Big Deal

2005-06-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

While trying to get back in the hang of posting more frequently than one-half a post per fortnight, I mark my page with the following lists, much as "at the height of excitement a male [Lemur macaco] may rub the top of his head in his urine or his excrement and seek to mark the animals he encounters" (Jean Jacques Petter, "The Lemurs of Madagascar," from Primate Behavior: Field Studies of Monkeys and Apes, ed. Irvin DeVore, 1965).

Things That Are Easier Said Than Done

Rising from the dead
Calculus

Things That Are Easier Done Than Said

Rumbling stomach from lunchless hunger (involuntary, so of course easier)
Masticating mangoes rapidly and madly
Sitting pretty shitting in a prison cistern

Thing That Is Equally Hard to Say and to Do

Laparosalpingo-oophorectomy (excision of ovary and uterine tube)

Hymns to the Silence

2005-06-16T01:17:00.000-07:00

Some necessarily cryptic wishes, just in case God is reading any of this (and hasn't gotten fed up by the scarcity of posts):

To C., an utter recovery and remission, then rivers of liquid refreshment as you toast the beauty that is your blessed undiminishable life,

To D., every courage from every quarter, and the thorough disabusement of any threat that you are alone--strewth and genius goodness endure in your every cell,

To J. and R.: the seraphim shall lay down their wings as you announce to heaven and law your wonderlove of one another, and I shall toast you by the gallon,

To everyone else but Jane, who knows: listen to Yat-Kha covering Motorhead's "Orgasmatron," then try to argue against beauty. Go ahead, just fuckin' try.

And Then, That Wasted Court Pushed Reefer to Medicinal-Grade Nose Candy

2005-06-07T12:52:00.000-07:00

Man, those P-I headline writers must be, like, real "heads" who do "lines," likesay.

(p.s. Go see sweet Jane for actual analysis of this deplorable decision, if you've not already.)

Heat Dreaming and Waving

2005-05-27T22:53:00.000-07:00

For the second day running, Seattle's withstood near ninety degree afternoons, and hot dry nights with every window in the city thrown open. And how intimate this city becomes then. Not merely that its citizens walk about in as much dishabille as the law'll permit, but further that, with every window thrown open, every sound of our private lives is shared as far as sound will travel. Last night, recovering from a fever that'd stricken three-fourths of my family, I was kept awake by fights, orgasms, exaltations, sighs, music, telephones, and closing time noises from everywhere in a three block radius at least; and though I desperately wanted to sleep or maybe not, I rejoiced in these sounds. How well I suddenly knew these neighbors I'd never meet. How surely had I been these people at one time or another, in this city or the other. Today as I walked around Capitol Hill with my lady and our babe, I examined everyone we passed, and thought, "You gave me something last night you'd be reluctant to admit--didn't you?" And sure enough, nobody admitted nothin'. And now it's another night.

Laaaaast Night, She Said

2005-05-22T00:14:00.000-07:00

Sleeve: "I'm a visionary."
Baby Jane: "Yeah, you see the future waaaayyy before it doesn't happen."

Buffo

2005-05-20T12:49:00.000-07:00

. . . is the world's strongest clown. Or so he says, but I won't be arguing the point with him.

Froggy Ready to Go A-Courtin'

2005-05-15T23:44:00.000-07:00

Here's another shot from our Northgate Target trip a week back. Say, Einstein, what the hell is that on your head? "Teethe and tug," indeed. (Detail pic on Flickr; click through & find if you so wish.)

Future Ghost

2005-05-12T14:13:00.000-07:00

(After such a mad torrent of blissful good news [see previous post], it seems appropriate to keep things in perspective by posting something self-indulgently morbid. I reckon everyone fantasizes about what sort of obituary he'll receive, but I like to leave nothing to chance. So, to commemorate the eventual plummet of my pen name, I present this written monument to the future late Sleeve.)

Sleeve Consequences, (age here), passed away peacefully in his electric chair (date here) after a protracted state of "ice"-induced psychopannychy. A self-noted would-be author of numerous fictions, poems, and acerbic one-liners about how golf is dumb, he devoted his last years to growing a mustache on the inside of his upper lip. His taxidermized head sits in perpetual state inside the helmet of the Canterbury Inn's suit of armor, where through the wizardry of animatronics it sticks out its tongue and yells "fuckpig!" every time some drunk lifts up the visor. Sleeve is survived by his amanuensis, his augoeides, and his--his--hell, his "real person behind the pseudonym". Goddammit, there's gotta be a better word for that, a fancy Greek-derived three- or four-syllable word starting with "a". Anyway, mourners are encouraged to make donations in his memory to the Gnostic Nudist Foundation for the Prevention of Feline Serotonin Syndrome, a front charity for a pyramid scheme meant to enrich his--his--y'know, his "guy who writes under the assumed name". Christ, I wish I knew some Greek (and no, I don't mean some "Greek," either, you sick sick souls).

One Little Victory

2005-05-12T12:58:00.000-07:00

I embrace every scrap of good news as it comes, for what else have we but to hope a little fucking bit once in a while.

The Subversive Spider-Man

2005-05-10T13:15:00.000-07:00

This brand new item was found at Seattle's Northgate Target last Sunday. Spider-Man seems to have a message for today's youth that, shall we say, paints him as a bit of a scofflaw. Perhaps J. Jonah Jameson was right? (Detail picture on my Flickr site; click through if needed.)

My Dopey Dope Misnomers, and Dubya’s

2005-05-09T00:28:00.000-07:00

Only a day after my last post, I realized I’d made a wretched error of the squarest sort. Dig: 4-methyl aminorex is known colloquially as “ice,” not “glass”! “Glass” is apparently a term for methamphetamine when smoked (though, as I’ve never personally heard this term used by any genuine dopehead, it could be strictly a construction of the media). Whereas the term “ice” can allegedly also refer to methamphetamine, the term “glass” is never used for the exotic, elusive 4-methyl aminorex.

I would have immediately altered my last post to reflect this realization, but the Psychedelic Warlords (the drug subculture equivalents of the “Secret Chiefs” of esoteric Freemasonry) threatened in no uncertain terms to “disappear [me] in smoke . . . and man, that ain’t no god-damned joke, you square punk poseur narc,” and so on, were I to attempt to cover up this shameful lapse. Therefore I must cop to this pre-scripted confession, attaching my name to the bottom in traditional forced contrition.

In my defense, I can only sputter that, hey, at least I’m more on the ball (if not the dope) than the White House’s Office of National Drug Control Policy. Not only do their lists of “street terms” retain such fusty old smokable chestnuts as “Mary Jane,” “viper,” and “Bolivian marching powder,” they contain a whopping bongload of disinformation. Here you will learn that Benzedrine, Methedrine, and Dexedrine are all slang names for Ecstasy, as are Khat (in reality a cathinone-containing leaf from Somalia) and—beyond bizarrely—“monoamine oxidase.” Also, “Charlie,” a time-honored fustism for cocaine, is thickheadedly identified as heroin, and—most pointedly—“ice” is identified as either “cocaine, crack cocaine, smokable methamphetamine, methamphetamine, methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA), phencyclidine (PCP)”—but not 4-methyl aminorex!

Plenty of other fun to be had here. Next time you go to Third and Pine to score some cocaine, try asking for Cecil, Carrie Nation, foolish powder, Henry VIII, oyster stew, or the “All-American Drug.” Marijuana more to your taste? Get hip, White House style, and start calling it goblet of jam, Kate Bush (!), haircut, square mackerel, or the white-haired lady. Need a new kick? Try one of the following improbable crazes: “Tina” (“methamphetamine used with Viagra”), “balling” (“vaginally implanted cocaine”—whatever that means), or “five way” (“combines snorting of heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine, ground up flunitrazepam pills, and drinking alcohol”). Just remember to know your limit, take it easy on the “great bear” and “loads of laundry” (fentanyl and methamphetamine, respectively), and be sure not to get “up against the stem” (addicted to smoking marijuana).

Anyway, witness my hand and seal and what have you,

Sleeve Consequences,
Enemy of the Wasted Proletariat

Because my list is on my list . . .

2005-05-07T13:45:00.000-07:00

. . . and whiskey's in my beard.

Other Paraphernalia Modeled on Hemp Rolling Papers

Crack cocaine molded into a short, nostril-width tube

Syringe fashioned from hollowed-out stem of Papaver somniferum

Glass pipe made of “glass” (4-methyl aminorex), in which to smoke “glass” (4-methyl aminorex)

Nembutal suppositories sold with a prosthetic finger, made of course of solid Nembutal, with which to jam the pills up your ass—the hygienic way

’Lude-coated ’Ludes (note: coating may contain 2% or less of: methylcellulose, gelatin, FD&C Red #40, fuckin’ badass pharmaceutical-grade “roofies”, and/or xanthan gum)

Tobacco rolling papers

Post-Millenial Markdown!

2005-05-06T23:49:00.000-07:00

(or is that pre-Millenial? anyway. . . )

Beast's real mark devalued to '616'

At least as far as Canada's currently concerned. Must these damned revisionists strip the glamor out of everything? What would Uncle Al say?

Furthermore:

Ellen Aitken, a professor of early Christian history at McGill University, said the discovery appears to spell the end of 666 as the devil's prime number.

Hmmph! Obviously not a professor of mathematics! Of course, "the devil's prime number" could mean "not, for the love of God, a prime number," the devil being a liar and all that. Or perhaps the reporter--or HE--is putting words in Prof. Aitken's shapely Canadian mouth.

Another One I Purple Slept Through Ass

2005-05-02T01:52:00.000-07:00

Somehow I keep missing these things till a month or two go by, it seems. Anywhateverthehowhell, my old friend Brent Busboom got to interview Laurie Anderson for the Reno News and Review -- just a quickie, but a cool coup for the good fellow nonetheless. Cheers across the over-a-decade, Brent!

Everybody knows that the bird is the word

2005-04-29T11:43:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-29T01:50:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-04-28T23:49:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-04-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-04-19T18:45:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-04-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-04-16T22:19:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-15T17:37:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-14T01:53:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-04-13T01:51:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-02T23:35:00.000-08:00

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

2005-04-01T11:16:00.000-08:00

From Zimbabwe to my own beloved Washington State. . .

The Phenomenon That Dare Not Let Me Invent Its Name

2005-03-29T12:04:00.000-08:00

I've lately noticed a fascinatingly irritating phenomenon involving Blogger: the fuckillions of blogs trying, invariably ineptly, to use their sites as marketing tools. Hit the little "next blog" feature up there, and you'll likely be swept to some grand site such as this (coffee flavored free Resources!), this (urgently looking for the most recent bulletins on Franz 90th Anniversary Basketball Cards?) and my favorite so far, Jesus in Lingeries (sic). Attempt to resist this, O potential consumer:

Keen on Black Pantyhose Gallery? One of the internets greatest advantages is that you can quickly and comfortably source whatever youre looking for. Before the advent of the web how easy was it to discover the Black Pantyhose Gallery info you needed right in front of you?

Not at all easy, Jesus, I must confess.

Okay, I can dig more or less what's behind this: automated blog-generators whose purpose is to increase the number of links to a commercial site in the hopes of manipulating search engines--much the same reasoning as comment spam. But the ineptitude of the final product makes Nigerian scam spammers seem like magnates of industry. And what to call these things? I just tested "next blog" again and found that four-fifths of the blogs were this sort of hokum. Something so widespread must have a name, or very badly needs one. "Splagm" seems perfect, being a portmanteau of "spam" and "blog" as well as being appropriately disgusting sounding. But how to pronounce that? Anyone (besides "Brokeman" and his broke ilk) care to chime in?

Garry, Just Admit It

2005-03-28T12:16:00.000-08:00

“Life is just like a game of chess.” How many times have you heard some variation of this stale old trope? Garry Kasparov would certainly have you believe this; his whole claim to authority stems from this attractive fallacy. Now friends, I’ve had both chess and life in godawful abundance, and so know damnwell that chess ain’t nothin’ like life at all. Hence,

Ways Chess Ain’t Nothin’ Like Life At All

(1) In chess, when a pawn reaches the opponent’s eighth rank, it is “promoted,” usually to Queen. In life, you slave for twenty years as an under-assistant secretary to the VP of Marketing, only to get passed up for promotion to some rich punk 23 year old MBA who calls you “guy.”

(2) In chess, a pawn's first move enables it to advance two spaces. In life, your first move will result in a drink being thrown in your face and being called a “creep” or an “asshole.”

(3) In chess, the Queen has the greatest power and mobility, with the potential to occupy any square on the board. In life, the Queen must move to West Hollywood, the West Village, the Castro, or Capitol Hill, Seattle. . . or, less successfully, to rural heartland America (reference: Hedwig & the Angry Inch).

(4) In chess, if a player devotes his life to the game and wins enough matches, he will be lauded as an International Master. In life, if a player does the same, he becomes an international fugitive and then a citizen of Iceland.

(5) In chess, resignation is signaled by tipping over one’s king. In life, resignation involves drinking oneself into a nightly stupor while chain smoking in tattered boxer shorts and wondering when the razor’ll be allowed to slip just enough.

(6) In chess, the doubling cube is placed on the “bar,” with the number 64 on top. Oh, wait, that’s backgammon, a game that really is exactly like life. Excuse me.

Tom Waits on Leadbelly

2005-03-27T17:10:00.000-08:00

[He] contains all that is necessary to sustain life, a true force of nature. He died the day before I was born and I like to think I passed him in the hall and he banged into me and knocked me over.

I can see clearly now, the stain is gonzo. . .

2005-03-25T11:56:00.000-08:00

I saw this product last night in the laundry room of my building. Perhaps I'm just too sensitive after Mr. Thompson's recent demise, but they have no damn right! As usual, ridicule's the only weapon of a poor man. Therefore,

Possible True-to-Name Ways Gonzo® Stain Remover Removes Stains

Trades stain and two tickets to the Super Bowl to some winos for their half-empty bottle of Muscat.

Takes stain on a long wild drug-addled speed-haunted trip through the desert to San Antonio, drops it off tripping balls in the center of the Republican City Aldermen’s Association annual meeting, and leaves.

Throws radio into the tub with the stain when the rabbit bites its own fucking head off.

Hallucinating and sweating buckets of bullets after chewing a big fat Bonobo pineal gland and drinking six isopropyl ’n’ Cokes, cowers behind the Great Seal of the State of Colorado while leveling a Smith and Wesson at the stain and ranting, “Back, you savage bastard, back!”

Rolls stain up with rough cut mentholated tobacco and high-test Moroccan kif, smokes the bejeezus out of it, and libelously lambasts several Supreme Court justices in a thirty-thousand-word typewriter flagellation session to be published by Rolling Stone circa 1991.

Comment with more, kind reader(s).

Today

2005-03-16T23:52:00.000-08:00

(1) It finally rained in Seattle.
(2) I got at last an offer for some contract proofreading work, doublechecking French text for video games. Quelle suprise!
And, AND,
(3) Corazon Antonia Chinnici, 6 lbs 13 oz, 7:51 p.m.!!
God and the Gods favor her angelhood, and bless boldly you both, dearest friends.

Hedgy Chessy Hopes Dashed to Dangville

2005-03-15T11:25:00.000-08:00

“Chess player Gary [sic] Kasparov announces his run for president in 2008.” Salon.com today makes this claim atop an article reprinted from The Guardian, taking a break from its peerless dead duck reportage. But hang on: not only does the actual story not confirm this claim (read it here to avoid Salon-O-Mercial), but Kasparov’s March 14th Wall Street Journal editorial, in which he announced his retirement from chess, directly contradicts it:

My retirement from chess is not about running for president or any other higher office, although I am not prepared to rule anything out. It is about opposing our authoritarian regime and bringing positive change. There are millions like me in Russia who want a free press, rule of law and fair elections. My new job is to fight for those people and to fight for those things.

(Read the rest here, to avoid the Wall Street Journal.)

Yeah, “I am not prepared to rule anything out” is typical hedge-speak. I’m sure Putin’s already announced something like, “My intentions are not to overturn the constitution to hold on to power forever, although I am not prepared to rule anything out.” But however hedged, such a declaration is no basis for claiming its exact opposite.

Hey, Salon: I’ll happily read your articles for you for a nominal stipend. Comment with an offer, and I’ll have my agent get in touch with your attorneys, etc. etc.

That Invaluable UK Press, or, Why the Internet Exists, Pt. 27

2005-03-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

The Strange Case of the Homosexual Necrophiliac Duck

Citizen Dissident Snicket

2005-03-11T00:05:00.000-08:00

Wildly popular morbid children's literature for regime change! The final volume of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, The Slippery Slope, contains the following dialogue (page 107) between the infant Sunny Baudelaire and the villainous Count Olaf:

"I'm getting quite tired of your ridiculous speach impediment," Count Olaf said.
"Brummel," Sunny said, which meant "In my opinion, you desperately need a bath, and your clothing is a shambles."
"Be quiet this instant," Olaf ordered.
"Busheney," Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of, "You're an evil man with no concern whatsoever for other people."

(Emphasis added, probably unnecessarily.)
That "Ch" sound is hard to get out when you're teething, it seems.

(Many thanks to dear Heather Bee for this discovery---and for everything else, yes.)

Rather? Not.

2005-03-10T14:40:00.000-08:00

The only thing I have to lament about Dan Rather's retirement is that the Evolution Control Committee's "Rocked By Rape" will now be a little less than contemporary, though the sentiment therein will surely last as long as broadcast news. Have a listen, and salute Dan's mighty legacy in proper fashion. Cheers, boyo.

Sleeve and Sleevelette

2005-03-09T15:06:00.000-08:00

What better for a Flickr posting test than a little Buggins, innit?

Even apter than the real thing

2005-03-09T11:37:00.000-08:00

From Cinemocracy, via News of the Dead, by way of etc. etc. :

Fox Searchlight’s in-flight movie version of Sideways, as distributed in South America, replaced all instances of the epithet, "asshole," with, "Ashcroft."
As in, "you Ashcroft!"

Now if only they'd snuck in a Santorum or two . . .

Dare Ye Mix Magick----With Metaphor??

2005-03-07T19:36:00.000-08:00

"Armed with this self-knowledge, the magician may ever ride the shark of his desire across the ocean of the dual principle to a gratuitous ecstasy."

--Peter J. Carroll, Liber Null & Psychonaut, p.77

Oh, ~~Jesus H. Christ~~ Kia H. Zos.

Lullasuey

2005-03-05T11:48:00.000-08:00

My beloved pards Lullabelle's next show is again at bigtime hotspot Chop Suey, Wednesday March 16. This time they share the bill with th'esteemed and half-renowned Scientific American. Way to go, mes belles! Door's at nine, and I'll damnwell be girding up my purple ass for some git-down. Will you?

Homage to Wiggins, and Anderson, Separately

2005-03-04T21:18:00.000-08:00

Your search - "hitler-headed zebras" - did not match any documents.

Suggestions:

- Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
- Try different keywords.
- Try more general keywords.

The Successful Thistle Sifter

2005-02-28T15:16:00.000-08:00

I so wanted to be the first to trumpet the lovely re-launch of my dear friend Andrew's site Thistleshrine, but I am not. Only his photography link is active so far (and is as highly recommended as anything can be) but check back all too frequently and impatiently for his words and leather to appear and give you even greater cause to love.

Thirty-Five Years of Paranoid Flapdoodle

2005-02-28T12:54:00.000-08:00

Only now, three days later, am I picking through the various omens and weirdness that popped up during what ended up being a very long birthday. Tops: I woke up at 6:30 a.m. to the house across the street blazing away, eventually to burn out completely and take part of the tree with it. The SFD eventually put it out, and no one was killed or seriously injured (though someone's Trivial Pursuit "Genus Edition" got pretty waterlogged). We decided to watch the fire on TV, maybe to have an insulating layer of objectivity between us and our early morning fears . . . anyway, every station covering it kept giving out our address, not our blazing neighbors’. Sure, they likely couldn’t read the proper address through the smoke, steam, water, flames—but it’s just bizarre that they decided to blatantly give out the wrong address instead. We laughed this off in the morning, but later in the day, alone and worn out, I started getting spooked by it. What sort of omen was it? Was there really no fire across the street? Was this all a grotesquely exteriorized metaphor, and if so for what? And how did that broken broom later blocking my path on the sidewalk fit in?

That night I got drunk, and all this fangy angst subsided properly for a time. But during the drunking, I experienced my first and stupidest episode of real precognition, and started anew the silly second-guessing. Dig: this curly-headed drunkard one booth over and I started talking, and suddenly I was hit with the inspiration: “He’s gonna start talking about the Kinks.” Sure enough, with no lead-in, no context, no warning, he began a ten minute friendly tirade about th’aforementioned Kinks (his oft-repeated point being that I should love The Kink Kontroversy as much as he, an impossible feat). At the risk of boring my only reader, then, I ask: what accounts for this? Does the alcoholic suppression of the forebrain allow messages from ten seconds from now to leak through? Does it help the telepathic broadcast of fanatic single-minded interests? Some combination? A big pissy delusion? And why, why so stupid a message?

Into the Mystic Menstrual Mistrial Night We Go, Hey Ho, Hey Ho

2005-02-25T01:12:00.000-08:00

I, Sleeve Consefuckingquences, hereby dedicate this branding, spanking new weblog as a birthday present to Ian, whose loyal pseudonym I have been since the turn of the century at least. Please, gentle public, consider everything within to be provisional, including the wretchedly un-purple pink-ass borders hereupon; there ain't much I can do about that shit right now, 'fraid to say.

What shall be the nature of this entertainment? Likely much as before: politics, occult, attempted satire, merry jests & boastings & all such rat's-ass claptrap. Gone of course is any pretense at furthering the non-existent agenda of Purple Ass Press, now defuncter than ten Buffalo Bills. Perhaps, with a renewed purity (and pinker-than-christ borders), a genuinely blessed agenda'll emerge, one dedicated to th'uplift of all those beloved souls under the "loyalists" heading to the right, then to th'upswell of those they love, and the beloveds of the latter, and so on till all are just a wee fleeting bit elevated though they know it or not. . .

Or, at least best, I'll find a better reason to stay awake till one a.m., drinking the barley pop, digging the hushed roar of my cityscape from my Capitol Hill balcony, reflecting on the beauty of my family and yours, keeping my eyes off the solitaire program for a while, and shrinking my cynicism into little flitty flecks I can brush brashly from my lapels with the usual insouciance of an overgrown adolescent. Or some such silly helplessness, yes, gods, yes.