Showers, flowers and a lack of swearing

The rite of Persephone

Pastels burn the ash smeared on glass,
winter’s talisman rests broken.
What great burden springs from the grass –
bright shadow, leave me your token:
plucked imaginings catch the breeze,
reawaken songs in the trees –
let me hear them pine for the seas.

O symphony, echo so deep,
reveal your secrets kept below,
a spell against the death of sleep,
charming measures to move so slow –
the hours stop. Deceived, I cry,
fragments climb to embrace the sky,
compose the most beautiful lie.

The internets is fucking broken

You've got to be fucking kidding me. I know I don't swear as much as some other fuckers, but zero percent is dangerously close to Super Duper Extra-Strength Holy Rollin' Bible Thumpin' Jesusery with a side of Stigmata, Alms and Sackcloth.

A trip down memoranda lane

"Yeah, you see, we're putting the suspects on boards now before they get tortured. Did you see the memo about this?"

"Yeah. I've got the memo right here, but, uh, uh, I just forgot. But, uh, we're not supposed to torture even during wartime, so there's no problem."

"Yeah. If you could just go ahead and make sure you do that from now on, that will be great. And, uh, I'll go ahead and make sure you get another copy of that memo, mmmkay?"

Fools, it's April

I can't wait for the morning after. I've got my spirits stocked, do you?

A double-shot weekend!

Van Gogh, The Poet's Garden, October 1888.

Hey, if classic rock stations can play two Zeppelin or Floyd tracks on Saturdays and Sundays, we can certainly celebrate two birthdays chez Randal. So, friends, Romans, Frenchmen -- and Dutch -- lend me your ears.

Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Enjoy the cake.

And try not to shoot anyone. Read them some verse instead.

Mon rêve familier*

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime,
Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.

Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur, transparent
Pour elle seule, hélas! cesse d'être un problème
Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême,
Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.

Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse?—Je l'ignore.
Son nom? Je me souviens qu'il est doux et sonore,
Comme ceux des aimés que la Vie exila.

Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,
Et, pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave; elle a
L'inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.

*Paul Verlaine, Poèmes Saturniens

Getaway

A nice Washington Post write-up about the land of the Cathars as she is now, via The French Journal. I certainly wouldn't mind escaping this tarnished city on a hill for awhile to write and explore amidst the long shadows of that history. If old stuff fires up your inner geek, and you're stuck here as well, then I can heartily recommend books such as these to get your imaginary journey out of the house and onto the road.

"We're just tryin' to accomplish what we're tryin' to do."

"Hit this, sucker."

Sorry to recycle those famous words -- well, famous among the two or three of us Cleveland-area baseball fans that actually remember Jim Thome saying them -- but they haven't rung this true in a long time. Falling one game short of the World Series means the team with the worst logo in professional sports is pretty damn close -- especially without any major losses -- to accomplishing something of merit. Like, oh, I don't know, WINNING A FUCKING WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP OF ANY KIND FOR CLEVELAND FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE 1964. But I'm not bitter and harbor no animosity towards The Red Sux Nation nor The Fucking Yankees for outspending everyone on an annual basis thereby increasing their opportunities because, hey, that's the American way, isn't it. An actual salary cap would be socialistic and Stalinistic and would only lead to premarital intercourse, rampant wide stancing and the ingestion of illegal substances while zoning out to Grateful Dead albums. But enough about the fucked-up economics of the sport and onto the stuff that stirs the competitive soul, the action on the diamond.

AL East: Sure, Grade A wingnut Curt Schilling is hurt and Josh Beckett has a wonky back, but Boston can still smack the ball and probably has the deepest staff in baseball. The Fucking Yankees have seen some young talent blossom (Robinson Cano, Gnats-Frighten-Me Chamberlain) and have the capacity to take on monster contracts while scoring more than [insert disgraced politician joke of your choice], but there's some wear and tear in the field and especially on the mound. But not on the Clutchiest Shortstop of Clutchdom, the World's Only Living Superhero, by gosh! Toronto is quietly accumulating some skill and with some breaks (such as the bones of the above clubs) could push for a playoff spot. Tampa Bay and Baltimore merely suck in varying degrees, and once all that top-shelf youth begins to earn their paychecks -- which might start happening in Tampa this year -- they'll be leaving for greener pastures anyway. En plus, fuck you Floridians for getting rid of 'devil.' Wankers.

AL Central: Let's get the scrubs out of the way. Hard to believe that the Royals were at one time the poster child for professional expansion teams way back in the 1970s, when such teams received no perks of pity. They did it the old fashioned way -- they ehhhhned it. (It just isn't the same without audio. Oh well.) Anyway, despite young and talented dudes like Alex Gordon and Billy Butler, they will continue their recent trend towards the pleasantly bad. At least Gil Meche sort of deserved his ridiculous contract last year. I really thought his ERA would be above five. Good job! The Twins? Well, they resigned Joe Nathan. They'll be 'scrappy' once again and finish under .500. The White Sox are only a few years removed from a world championship, and they can still clobber the ball, but good luck with those starters. I suggest kidnapping and/or human sacrifice. Which leaves us and Detroit. On paper, they have the better lineup and we have the better staff, though I certainly worry about C.C. and Fausto staying fresh after last season's marathon. The Tigers are currently infected with a rash of injuries and that might be prove to be just enough difference to give us the edge, but flip a coin.

AL West: The Los Angeles Angels of Walt Disney's Anti-Semitic Corpse of Anaheim will repeat, but barely. I know the Mariners are a chic pick, but they didn't add a reconstituted Ken Griffey or Edgar Martinez to the lineup, were outscored last year despite their 88 wins, and unless Felix Hernandez and Erik Bedard turn into the second coming of Jim Palmer and Mike Cuellar, forget it. That's all assuming another Angel starter doesn't get hurt. Oakland is retooling on the fly once again and will play this season's version of September spoiler. And then there's Chimpy's old team and its joke of a staff. But please, Ian Kinsler, hit 30+ for my fantasy team, thanks.

NL East: The NY Mets are not my favorite squadron, and they have been bitten by the injury insect as well, but they did add the best pitcher on Planet Earth and there's simply no way they can top last year's masterpiece of chokery. Philadelphia has a top-flight lineup and Cole Hamels and Atlanta has quietly added some pop since abdicating their near-birthright to the divisional throne, but will either one have enough to hold off the Mets? Florida traded a bunch of their best players for the 85th year in a row -- hard to blame them when three people come to the game, but did you really have to trade Cabrera to the Tigers? -- and the Senators simply aren't very good. Now about Washington's baseball team. Admit it. You chuckled.

NL Central: You know the second Kerry Wood blows a save, some fucker will ramble on about that goddamn curse. Shut the fuck up already because it doesn't matter. Why? The Cubs are the best all-around team in the division again and curses only work in literature and film. I'd love to see a fellow, brat-eating Midwestern city get in, but the Brewers don't have enough pitching and you know Ben Sheets will get hurt like he does every year. You can set your watch to it. Each season has a sleeper, and what the hell, I say it's Cincinnati. The Reds, like the DEVIL Rays, have some nice young talent, but aren't quite ready at the moment. Boy, did the Cardinals get crappy quick, but when you drink the bitter bromide of age, ineffectiveness and injury, that's what happens. The Pirates will likely float below .500, but their staff isn't as bad as you think. Matt Morris, Paul Maholm and Zach Duke can't be that bad again, can they? And then there's the Astros, wasting the arm of Roy Oswalt and a solid lineup. But man, the rest of those pitchers. Must be something in the Texas water.

NL West: The Dodgers have a quality staff, a monster, if aging, closer, and young dude James Loney will be crushing the ball with gusto. Funny how I don't hate Joe Torre anymore now that he's not wearing pinstripes. San Diego had the best 1-2 punch in baseball in Jake Peavy and Chris Young, and don't be surprised if the latter continues to get better as his ERA and WHIP have improved three years running. They don't brutalize the ball, but their babyfaced lineup will score just enough -- barely -- though I wonder how many quality starts 752-year old Greg Maddux can give them. A hell of a run by Colorado, but does anyone really see that happening again? They have enough talent to do so. Arizona added Dan Haren to an already excellent staff, but lest we forget, they, like Seattle, were outscored last year, so don't put on your shuffleboard shoes yet, retirees. Holy hell, the Giants might have the worst everyday lineup in the history of the known universe. One hundred losses is a possibility. I could see poor Matt Cain impersonating Nolan Ryan circa 1987: leading the league in ERA and going 8-16.

AL wild card: Just wouldn't be an American League postseason without The Fucking Yankees, would it? Why, yes it would because Detroit, not The Fucking Yankees, will be the fourth playoff team in the American League. Of course Alex Rodriguez will get blamed. Duh.

NL wild card: The *rolls die* Padres edge the Phillies, Brewers, Rockies, Braves and Diamondbacks.

ALCS: Boston over Cleveland. Again. Sigh.

NLCS: The Non-Evil team from New York over The Ghost of Harry Caray.
Holy cow!

World Series: Yes, they'll repeat. Boston over The Non-Evil team from New York. Get ready for rehashes of Buckner and cokeheads a' plenty.

Invasion of the body snatchers

Sure, the temperature is still a bit cool in Northeast Ohio, but I couldn't place why I began to shudder so, such bodily tectonics strangely allied with a hint of a piquant, vomity feeling climbing up the throat. Arriving at work, I immediately hung ten on the internets to find out if there was some heretofore underreported strain of the avian flu making the rounds.

It was something much, much worse.

President Bush is offering a fresh assessment of progress on political, security and economic fronts in Iraq as he weighs a decision on troop levels.

The president planned to use the National Museum of the United States Air Force in Dayton, Ohio, as the backdrop for his address.

Take it easy, Hangar 18 and put away your ray guns. You want fresh assessments? You got 'em, and just dig that rhythm!

The U.S. military spokesman in Baghdad also gave an upbeat assessment.

"Iraqi operations in Basra also reflect the growing ability of the Iraqi security forces, Iraqi decision-making and Iraqi leadership," said Maj. Gen. Kevin Bergner. He said that the operation wasn't against the Mahdi Army, only against outlaws who didn't honor Sadr's freeze.

Rikabi similarly said that the Iraqi government isn't targeting any political group or party, only "outlaws, the gangs and the murderers."

The situation on the ground suggested otherwise.

Hey, Captain Doom and Gloom, take some pills for your BDS. There'll soon be a new sheriff in town and at the end of his six-shooter is incontrovertible proof that when Al Qaeda blows shit up, you damn well better believe we won't need to stay forever because the Iraqis have things in hand and they can keep their oil because we sure don't want it.

Confused? Don't be! Come January 20, 2009, this twisted intrigue will be given crisp, reinvigorating clarity! Take a whiff. Damn right it's that just-out-of-the-showroom new car smell!























"I don't care what anyone says, but I did stay on the Straight Talk Express last night."

Use Your Carbonation

"To answer your question, no, I don't know if they drink soda in China. But they really hate democracy. See, I'm clever, motherfucker!"

Oh, Dr. Pepper, save us, please won't you save us, from our long national nightmare. Yes, I'm trying to avoid doing a political post. It's that obvious, huh.

Bitter? Sweet as sugar.

Hot damn, kids, few things are finer than drowning in anticipation for a new album -- six long years in this case if you count a soundtrack release, and I do -- having that album arrive and, most importantly, having that album more than satisfy said anticipation. The sultry-voiced Jill Tracy, last heard here, is back with her new long player, The Bittersweet Constrain, and it's as wonderfully dark and mischievous and mesmerizing as I had hoped, the perfect spell to make one forget, even if just for a moment, about superdelegates and crumbling ice shelves.

Her piano still dominates proceedings the way a lover dominates -- oops, that's another story for another time -- but her backing band, The Malcontent Orchestra, has upped the propulsive thrust of the musical backbone in comparison to her debut, Diabolical Streak, leaving the strings to accent the proceedings and bringing to the fore the cornucopia of percussion heard on Into the Land of Phantoms, the aforementioned instrumental soundtrack to F. W. Murnau's silent horror classic Nosferatu, thus luring the songs with an amorous kiss out of a turn-of-the-century cabaret and its table of forlorn green fairies and through the fog for a rendez-vous in a smoky, noirish jazz club caught in the dark cloak of a nearby hotel that's seen and heard everything under the moon.

The lyrics still spin twilight tales of spurned love, untimely ends and thoughts lost in the shadows, slowly creeping unseen and meaning to not merely embrace, but drag us down into those oh-so-wrong exalted states. Go on, wear the masque of shock at their devious plan, but do you really want to fight it? Thought not. I suppose that I could name some 'highlights' -- the hypnotic languor of lead track Haunted by the Thought of You, the sinister longing of Sell My Soul, the sordid delicacy of Room 19, the seductively sardonic Torture -- but I've always been an album guy, so sitting down with nary a weak track and sleepwalking in daydream through all sixty-one minutes is the only way to listen. What a bloody good record. I need a smoke.

[Crappy Blog® posting template 1.0]

[roll d10 for subject]

1. Machinations of Bush administration and/or the Republican horde [roll additional d10 for specifics: 1. lying; 2. cheating; 3. stealing; 4. wide stancing; 5. hypocrisy; 6. apocalyptico-John Hagee-ism; 7. diaper wearing; 8. pillaging; 9. bombing; 10. Bush malapropism]

2. Music

3. Poetry

4. Sports [roll d10 for particular sport: 1. football; 2. basketball; 3. baseball; 4. hockey; 5. soccer; 6. lawn darts; 7. rock/paper/scissors; 8. synchronized swimming; 9. Bocce ball; 10. three card monte]

5. Wikipedia birthday search

6. Democrats [flip a coin to determine fortitude/wimpery status]

7. Writing

8. Goofy album covers [scan if necessary]

9. Potpourri

10. Reroll

The Fine Art of Poisoning

Music by Jill Tracy, directed by Bill Domonkos.

I wanted to go with something Easter-themed, and what's more topical than poisoning by arsenic chocolate? Enjoy your weekend, Jesusheads -- no, not you of the fundie variety, you can go Cheney yourselves -- and secularists. Don't stay in bed too long and while you're out visiting grandma, be careful parking.

And watch out for exploding stars. It's bad enough gas prices are blowing up.
"Unka Dick, we should get one of those. Kill a lotta turrists, heh, heh."
"Grr, grr, GRR, G-R-R!"

As for me, I'll be in the middle of an all-day ritual to appease Cthulhu so he'll eat me last. Now where did I put those virgins....

I have some horrible, bone-chilling news!

"No reunion for you!"

Unsurprising, but horrible and bone-chilling nonetheless.

Happy 323rd, you crazy German dude

His music is so perfect, even your simple, primitive thoughts will be contrapuntal after you've listened to it. Hell, after one mere spin of the Art of Fugue, my IQ finally cracked triple digits. And everyone should have a copy of this. Depressed? Angry at having your passport files rummaged through? You'll feel fucking groovy afterwards, even if it's a tenebrous groovy. Trust me. After all, it was just imprudent curiosity, and who hasn't fallen prey to that?



Still ungroovy? Then you're more of a misanthrope than I am. Kudos.
Here's the lovingly sad andante from his violin concerto in A minor.



It's nigh impossible to express pure feeling, the things that move us to not merely exist, but to create, to live, but Bach came pretty goddamn close, no?

Workin' for NCAA

Kent State guard and MAC Player of the Year, Al Fisher.

Believe me, I really wanted to pull the trigger on a Kent State upset over Kansas, but I just can't see it. Then again, the Jayhakws have historically choked in the tournament, at least in recent years under Roy Williams, who will probably win his second title since moving to the land of tobacco. Anyway, here's what might possibly maybe sort of could happen. Just don't use these picks as the basis of any kind of wager involving goods, services or cash:

East final: North Carolina(1) over Louisville(3).
Midwest final: Georgetown(2) over Kansas(1).
South final: Texas(2) over Michigan State(5).
West final: UCLA(1) over Xavier(3). (fuck you, Duke!)

Final Four: North Carolina over UCLA.

It appears that I'm not going out on much of a limb, save for the early ouster of Memphis -- hey, some powerhouse has to turn turnovers and cold shooting into a second-round loss, right? -- but consider that in the last ten tournaments, twenty of the eighty participants in a regional final were seeded lower than fourth -- that's 25%, kids -- meaning at least two grotesque surprises should rear their ugly heads this year based on recent trends. Of course, there weren't any last year and only one in 2006 (George Mason). On the other hand, fifth-seeded Indiana made the title game in 2002, as did fifth-seeded Florida in 2000, which was quite the wacky year as five of the eight teams were sub-four seeds. Something else happened that year, but I can't exactly remember. Oh well, probably nothing important. As I said, don't place any bets using the information contained in this post. Watch O.J. Mayo and USC win the damn thing.

Go Golden Flashes!