What to write, what to write. Hmm.
Dear Penthouse. I can't tell that story. It's made up. It's too risqué. It was a dark and stormy night. Nor that one. Dozing heads can severely damage delicate keyboards and I don't want to be held responsible. There once was a man from Nantucket. Nope, no more poems this week.
Wait. That noise.
Ouch! My cochlea!
What the hell is that hideous cacophony?
Did you hear what McCain said?
"My friends, I never liked Rev. Hagee!"
Did you hear what Hillary said?
"Assassinate the superdelegates and their puppies!"
Did you hear what Obama said?
"I liberated Auschwitz! By myself!"
Did you hear Scotty wrote a book?
"I'm a repentant whore! For only $27.95!"
Did you hear what Bush said?
"Of course we never used proper gander! No follow-ups? Good!"
Did you hear we didn't do our jobs?
"We couldn't have done them any better!"
MAKE IT STOP ALREADY.
I've got nothing today -- and I mean zero -- were not yesterday's posts obvious precursors? Writing more crappy verse sure does sap the marrow from the bones -- I didn't waste my day off doing some extended family BBQ shindig, horror of boredom-inducing horrors -- and I'm not posting on some fucking political shit -- the above does not count -- so here are two videos of widely disparate musical styles, completely unrelated save for the fact that my multifaceted weirdness digs them both. This blog certainly isn't big enough to say 'open thread' -- isn't that what all comments sections are anyway, as if there was some iron-clad Law of the Tubes® carved in electrons demanding that we always stay on topic? I'm not going to go all police state unless you present yourself in the manner of a goddamn tool, like going off topic -- why do I fragment my sentences so much or run them on as if they were signed up for a cybernetic marathon? -- why is Leon getting larger? -- but if you don't say something, I'll merely end up talking to myself.
Or post on professional sports. And I know you don't want that. Right, Randal?
That's right, Randal. (No, I'm not drunk. Shut up.)
Satyricon, Fuel for Hatred
David Oistrakh and Co. playing the first movement of Bach's violin concerto in A minor
*title and concept deviously lifted (and maliciously altered) from the inscrutable and groovetastic Freida Bee. [Can a person or object be inscrutable and groovetastic? According to the OED, inscrutable means:
1. That cannot be searched into or found out by searching; impenetrable or unfathomable to investigation; quite unintelligible, entirely mysterious.
2. Rarely of things physical, as an abyss: Impenetrable, unfathomable.
Thus, if an entity is entirely mysterious, unknowable, how can they be labeled groovetastic? Mustn't we have provable facts and/or concrete experiences in order to quantify using our personal scale of groove? Since the entity we're talking about is a physical being, a fellow blogger, this could satisfy the criterion, no? On the other hand, the concept 'mysterious' in and of itself could be considered by certain parties to be groovetastic if one has an affinity for such abstract sentiments, bypassing the possible need for a physical object, provable facts and/or concrete experiences altogether. This is more than a simple either/or proposition and requires further study. Perhaps I can get a government grant. "No, Senator, I'm looking for more efficient ways to blow people up."]
Thursday, May 29, 2008
What to write, what to write. Hmm.