Unfinished vs. Undone

Momentum mustn't waver at this most crucial of junctures.

You see, it is too typical that, when I write about a niggling bit How Things Sometimes Are, I get sidetracked. By children, by circumstance, by this-or-that that I've forgotten to do. But not this time. No, sir and/or madam.

The secret to avoiding this, I surmise, is brevity. Starting with the premise: it is patently uncool for shows/movies/plays/productions that are set in a specific time to use music (for "atmosphere" or "legitimacy") that had not been written or released at the time that HAS NOT [expletive] BEEN WRITTEN OR RELEASED YET. This sickens me. It punctures suspension of disbelief, and constitutes an utter ignorance for what anything was ever actually like (inasmuch as that can be depicted anyway).

I think about the if-you-must climactic scene of 1987's "period piece" Dirty Dancing, set (as we all-too-likely know) in 1963. Johnny and Baby (Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey, respectively, although it'd be great if they switched) perform a dance for somebodies (I forget whom).

Anyway, the chosen soundtrack? A duet of Bill Medley (once, but never truly, a "righteous brother") and Jennifer Warnes (whom didst Jennifer warne?) that was written and recorded in 1987, and sounds like it. Granted, the movie is full of stupid selections (e.g., 1964's "You Don't Own Me" performed by The Blow Monkeys), but that's neither here nor there. To end the movie with a non-anthem from Reagan's second term is an abomination.


Agggh. Children, whom are lovely, need my attention. More very soon.

No Fun Intended

The vicissitudes of January in Maine bother the heck out of me. I will admit, however reluctantly, that I am grateful to be living on this frigid overcast unday, but just because my vocally espousing the alternative (i.e., not living) would abnegate all of the specific goodnesses, general greatness and so forth of this milieu, but today is like a hackneyed quip at which there is a perceived obligation to respond pleasantly, even though such denial is incrementally lethal.

This post was going to comprise bits that I'd begun but was too exhausted to complete, but no.

Instead, I'll talk about something else, in the hopes that it will improve my altogether-turdly disposition.

Ready? I bet you are.

I'm gonna write a book. (You don't have to read it or anything.)

"What kind of book?" is a rhetorical question that I refuse answer until the sentence that follows this sentence.

It'll be an encyclopædia that contains "facts" and "opinions" (including theories).

The subject? Popular music, because current studies indicate that popularity is sexier than intercourse itself.

Aaaannnd…because a claim of objectivity, like a clumsy generalization, is itself a recipe for betrayal on its own terms (never trust anything that identifies itself as "true" or "accurate," because I could broadcast the "fact" that I would bite myself if I were a dog, and the audience would have NO BASIS for dissension), there can be a caveat in the book's opening pages about the urgent importance of metaphor to describe "untranslatable" sentiments, events, trends, ad nauseam.


I posted an entry just now, for nobody's benefit, but then I removed it, for nobody's benefit. And I badly want to conclude this post, but first I'll tell you about young Desmond's new family of not-exactly-visible friends. What I find most thrilling about them is, I'll admit, a bit shallow. I will leave you with their names, preceded by household-member "type":

The Churches

Father: Sushi Church

Mother: Berkland Church

Child: Trash Night Church

Oh, how I swoon.

Interdependence Day

Hi. I'm taking my the advice of my eldest brother, who's considerably shrewder and more savvy than I am, and posting daily. In full disclosure, I'm doing so begrudgingly.

The humidity that's hindered us―permeating everything that we do or don't touch, muddling and fuddling my erstwhile will to make meaning of and from a purportedly green pasture―is a thing to which I refer (with faux-fondness) as "the Soup of the Day."

Oh gosh now it's later and the humidity has at last abated and we ate a delicioys meal and i worked in the yard until the mosquitos emerged and I hit my left hand in the exact same place quice.

perhaps you're puzzled at the sight of "quice"; i, too, would be so. but it's a recently coined (and, until now, privately used) word meaning, basically "happened or happening four times." like once or twice or thrice.

In days of yore (1997, so ardently idealized now, but was actually the same bankrupt and exceptionalist pepsi-fizz gutter as that in which nearly all of us flouncy problem-inventors reside, doubly deluded, to this very day), my friend Jason and I devised this numbering system for the amount of times that an event has occured or will occur. When I'm not exhausted, I will gladly list them all for you.

Just now, I thought that someone in our piddly-but-pretentious village had discharged a firearm. Then I remembered that it's the Bob-Seger-Michelob-Weber-Grill holiday of holidays, and I realized that it's likely bedtime.

Bite My Knee

The last few weeks have been preternaturally stressful, with my synapses snapping like twigs under the feet of an oaf. 

Today, however, brought us into May, and heralded the appearance of a significant thing that I made with my pal Mick. It's a record of my poetry, recited over backings from Mick and me. It's called "Bite My Knee"―I'd love for you to hear it, and you can do that here. It’s also on other digital-music sites and excitements, like iTunes.

Amazon made me put [explicit] on it, which makes me wanna puke.

Mea Maxima Culpa

12/17/2010, 11:15 AM 


It's been something like a couple thousand trices since I posted, and that's a longer interval than I had anticipated. I'm still mightily inexperienced with this (though less so with each typed character), and I appreciate your patience and understanding. This learning curve is steep and sharp—I refer you to the brief appearance of questionable, incongruous advertising on this blog. 


Enlisting into an advertising thing was a good idea on paper, but we all know (or should know, by now) what happens with that sort of thing. I'm referring to the moronic dating and/or pop-culture ads that appeared sneakily on this site like a lecherous sot at a wedding reception. I deleted them as soon as, in horror, I saw them. Suffice it to say that I don't even know who the Karadashians are, although I do find it discomfiting that they have three sisters whose first names all begin with the letter "K." We don't have a television, but I spend enough time in the grocery store and logging onto a computer to encounter plenty of dreck—that's all time and brainspace that we are NEVER GETTING BACK, PEOPLE. 


(I'm digressing here, but take a moment to reflect upon all of the unpleasant music to which you have been involuntarily subjected in your life. I'm sure that there is something that everyone can agree is awful, but I dare not name names herein. Well, I implore you to, whenever you feel like it, think of every grocery-store slog, of every waiting-room sentence—of every single epic of preposterous earshot torture that your sense of self-preservation permits you to recall.  Add the running times for all of those experiences together, and you'll probably total a couple of months. [To assist with calculations, I'll provide an informal chart.] 

1440 minutes per day
10080 minutes per week
4.35 average weeks per month [rounded up]
525 949 minutes [rounded up] equal one year, and, no matter what the duration, all of that time that you've imagined, and likely much more, now belongs to the past. Eff everything.)

Oh, goodness. These days are passing too quickly, and I've got lot more to say on this post. I will try to say it later today. (I think that I probably need to type with these slothful fingers of mine in the morning, before anyone awakens.) Anyway, have lovely days, please.