Non, the Peonage wasn't beating a hasty retreat to the Towering Slab even though, if we took our serious work more seriously, we would have been because we were nearly late for a very unimportant desk shift, but French chamber musick beneath stained glass, intermittent blooms of diffused blue seemingly in tune with chord changes, Dark Side & Oz without dorm room haze, is, shockingly, more alluring than sending faxes & checking in overdue items & the attendant patron bleorgh, but in missing the fourth & final movement of Faure's piano quartet in G minor [ed. note: advertise the full program next time bub], I briefly contemplated the innate silly-nesse of shackling our bodies to The Man's schedule even in the face of the heart & mind enjoying one of the reasons for even sticking around this everydeityforsaken planet, but with equal speed, remembered the third movement, & then I felt better until typing this, now I'm angry again
until the Duchess pointed out that Holy Warbles got nuked, one of the many villages destroyed in order to save Cary Sherman's face. SOPA, PIPA, & Oompa Loompas, evil, sure, but red herrings. If they want to fuck your shit up, they'll do so, ask Megaupload, & don't foolishly assume your cloud is forever under lock & swallowed key, either. Today, 'tis a non-issue, so. Copyright's a fish, too. Look, art's never been a moneymaker for the majority of practitioners, & the whole copyright gig is a legalese pit that's frankly boring like all legalese pits, but I always try & buy a shirt at the show to add a couple gallons of gas to the band's van, download from Bandcamp, or, since I love the clutter, preferably the CD because scoring a future landfill stuffer is more practical than clubbing baby seals to death in the Canadian wastes.