Dear Barry Obama

That was stupid. There are things worth being open-minded about, this we all know. But not fucking vouchers.

‘Little neo-gramscian rule of thumb, here, in lieu of just aping AFT talking points: these days, there’re no battles more important than those waged defending and nourishing every single service/agency/outlook that includes the words social and/or public in ’em. Anybody differ?

them changes

oof, Gypsy band-member Buddy Miles has passed. thanks for the sounds, legend.

maybe you also have an uncle

mine deals in high-quality, anti-anti-politically-correct screed. may it always be.

The Fount…

So, fantasy baseball… who wants in? We’re looking for the stallions, here, which is to say those who won’t be any more neglectful of there squad than i will be of mine, which is to say, demonstratively neglectful but nonetheless foul-mouthed about everything.

Paul Muldoon, Quail

QUAIL

Forty years in the wilderness
of Antrim and Fermanagh
where the rime would deliquesce
like tamarisk-borne manna

and the small-shot of hail
was de-somethinged. Defrosted.
This is to say nothing of the flocks of quail
now completely exhausted

from having so long entertained an
inordinately soft spot for the hard man
like Redmond O’Hanlon or Roaring Hanna

who delivers himself up only under duress
after forty years in the wilderness
of Antrim and Fermanagh.

Bob Mould – District Line EPK

as per my recent mention

there could be a few things

it could mean a few things, me really loving this new bob mould album.

1) it could mean that i don’t have “taste,” anymore. it could be that in lieu of critical encounters, i affix strongly-rationalized loyalty to the names that remind me of primordial, nostalgic encounters.

2) but i don’t think so. i think it could also mean that i did such a job of keeping myself hermetically sealed off and safe from the 16/4 orgy that was techno’s era of blips that i am un-jaded when i hear mr. mould doing a 2008-ish, power-punk-joni-mitchell/cher thing. (seriously, this record plums deep autobiographical hieroglyphic territory under a disco ball moon.) i’ve avoided the vocoder and drum sequencer so well that i can talk optimistically about the possibility of combining ’em with distorted guitars. hell, fripp did it.

3) it could also be that i see mould, or i hear mould, more as a writer than a player, even.  or maybe i think of him more as somebody who bears witness, actually. but the point is that mould’s lived experiences are so pungent and so crisply rendered on this album that even the awesome musicianship of mould and fugazi’s brendan canty assumes a backing-band place.

anyway, it’s awesome, i think.