IPOD
RADIO
It is impossible to shop for books now by David Foster Wallace as we once used to. We'd always "keep an eye out". He was one of the handful of authors whose name was always keyed into the search matrix as it scrolled from one side of the shelf to the next, snaking its way down or back up from the last row. He was one of those writers that it was worthwhile to hunker down in search of (I'm 6'4", so its a long way to the floor), but I was always willing to be crouched uncomfortably on the balls of my feet and packed like an accordian. You might see one of his books in every third trip to the used book store, and you always strongly considered getting whatever was there, even if you already had a copy.
It's not possible to that anymore, and for the first time ever, Infinite Jest has made the Time's Bestseller list. His books are selling for over $300 for the hardcover first edition on half.com. I'm guessing new editions of all the books are in the works, replete with fresh introductions, but all of this is just moonlight. It is a reflection without the warmth.
It is strange to me that this one light is so engaging now in its absense, strange and very sad.
It's not possible to that anymore, and for the first time ever, Infinite Jest has made the Time's Bestseller list. His books are selling for over $300 for the hardcover first edition on half.com. I'm guessing new editions of all the books are in the works, replete with fresh introductions, but all of this is just moonlight. It is a reflection without the warmth.
It is strange to me that this one light is so engaging now in its absense, strange and very sad.
Ow, my everything hurts. It's the alcohol's fault. Busy busy busy, sweeping out the mites and the tighter crevices. Move coming up, gotta get serious about that. Dec 1 up up and away. Thwacking roads and the tighter belts of cinching waists more than likely.
Mostly over, still reeking of disrespect.
Letting it ring, and not answering the door.
Need to find some new curves to swim.
Should probably eat something, and this fucking novel simply will not fucking right itself.
What the hell right? Who does it think it is?
Feuding with the neighbor, who is overly protective of her fence. Terminus and I have to have a chat.
Mostly over, still reeking of disrespect.
Letting it ring, and not answering the door.
Need to find some new curves to swim.
Should probably eat something, and this fucking novel simply will not fucking right itself.
What the hell right? Who does it think it is?
Feuding with the neighbor, who is overly protective of her fence. Terminus and I have to have a chat.
New Blog Post: http://theangryhug.blogspot.com/
Very happy with this line: You can call down the thunder of logic and fires of charity and wade in among the clamor of melee to swat and fell and sunder the breeding grounds of chaos.
Very happy with this line: You can call down the thunder of logic and fires of charity and wade in among the clamor of melee to swat and fell and sunder the breeding grounds of chaos.
Oh, those were the days:
"But first: do y'all remember that epic night back in '04 on Alexander
Street in Rochester?
You know, the night Blair broke up with Tatianna Mecklenburg (that
bitch) and Aaron fought an off-duty cop until the dude just, like,
slunk away sobbing and shit? And then Mahoney ate six garbage plates
because Brokk "accidently" laced up his clove cigarillo with
Anachraphobia, High Times' Best Bud of 1999? DUUUDE. I wanted to go to
that Korean massage parlor Billy used to work at, but nobody would let
me because I kept threatening to call everyone's mom and blab ("Always
at cross-purposes, Burke," Momo seethed). McKenna wasn't talking to
anybody but her two ex-lesbian friends from Williamsville, who had
been at one of those scary post-gay reeducation camps and kept
drinking Wild Turkey out of styrofoam cups and distractedly pawing at
each other. Yeah, them two. And then Mahoney had to kick over a street
performer's change cup. Shit was tense but settling down when, like a
hurricane, Brokk's out the frat bar bathroom and yelling shit like
"Chuck Norris sperm knuckles!" and flailing his arms at people, and
you know Aaron's always down for a brawl, and Billy's so fucking
irrationally angry about how he missed that Chris Claremont signing
out in Irondequoit he's brandishing his weird homemade knife-tool
(remember that thing he called "Foolspike" he made out of a soup ladle
and carparts?), and I'm whining about how I need to score some shit
from this horrible girl who's legally blind and convinced Kennedy one
time in Gitsi's to eat like 35 Sugar in the Raw packets, and Rojo
hyperventilating about he almost slapped some kid because he shit on
Pennywise's BEST record, and, look, now Blair's crying and not softly,
and Aaron's fighting that cop again except he's too drunk to notice
that some faceless horde is rounding the corner of East Ave and
they're bearing down on us now, flushing us south to Monroe Ave so
bugged out on booze and pills and arguments about comic books that we
can't get out of our own way.
And then Drew steps out from somewhere near the Bug Jar, nursing a
summer brew, going, "You guys are just classic!"
"But first: do y'all remember that epic night back in '04 on Alexander
Street in Rochester?
You know, the night Blair broke up with Tatianna Mecklenburg (that
bitch) and Aaron fought an off-duty cop until the dude just, like,
slunk away sobbing and shit? And then Mahoney ate six garbage plates
because Brokk "accidently" laced up his clove cigarillo with
Anachraphobia, High Times' Best Bud of 1999? DUUUDE. I wanted to go to
that Korean massage parlor Billy used to work at, but nobody would let
me because I kept threatening to call everyone's mom and blab ("Always
at cross-purposes, Burke," Momo seethed). McKenna wasn't talking to
anybody but her two ex-lesbian friends from Williamsville, who had
been at one of those scary post-gay reeducation camps and kept
drinking Wild Turkey out of styrofoam cups and distractedly pawing at
each other. Yeah, them two. And then Mahoney had to kick over a street
performer's change cup. Shit was tense but settling down when, like a
hurricane, Brokk's out the frat bar bathroom and yelling shit like
"Chuck Norris sperm knuckles!" and flailing his arms at people, and
you know Aaron's always down for a brawl, and Billy's so fucking
irrationally angry about how he missed that Chris Claremont signing
out in Irondequoit he's brandishing his weird homemade knife-tool
(remember that thing he called "Foolspike" he made out of a soup ladle
and carparts?), and I'm whining about how I need to score some shit
from this horrible girl who's legally blind and convinced Kennedy one
time in Gitsi's to eat like 35 Sugar in the Raw packets, and Rojo
hyperventilating about he almost slapped some kid because he shit on
Pennywise's BEST record, and, look, now Blair's crying and not softly,
and Aaron's fighting that cop again except he's too drunk to notice
that some faceless horde is rounding the corner of East Ave and
they're bearing down on us now, flushing us south to Monroe Ave so
bugged out on booze and pills and arguments about comic books that we
can't get out of our own way.
And then Drew steps out from somewhere near the Bug Jar, nursing a
summer brew, going, "You guys are just classic!"
...well we must delve, after all, deeply, among the hills we've built. We must bore through our procrastination and perspiration alike, haul out the sediments we've left fallow as we pull apart the landscape and shuffle it back together. When we're at our best, we're magicians, always able to the follow the ace of spades, no matter how deep its buried.
I've got the Speech frenzy! Obama's got a fucking speech-voice that'd raise a mountain. The dream is the day we hear the speech he gives that resonates timeless and shakes the pillars of heaven, right Egg?
Damn, speecherific! Got some twittering speech positing about modern polical speaking, because of course, the 'Bama WROTE HIS SPEECH! Yeah! That's a boy, bring the noise and bring the funk! The basic question is does McCain write his speeches? Certainly as a congressman he has given speeches written himself, but more than likely in the last 5 months certainly, and likely for some time even longer, he has not been the author of his words. Certainly,like Bush, he has edited and provided imput, but one of the features of the Repub machine is their speech writing. It's been in full effect since Reagan of course.
It has been some time since I was disowned of a complete disregard for W's speaking ability. He is a willful figure, and his speeches, it was some years ago were pointed out to me, are structured as arguments. This clarification was important. I can relate to and see his ability as practiced in speaking, though his faculties for ad-libed speaking are clearly poor (and personally an embarassment as an American), and it affirms my dislike of his speaking. For one, his content and message are antithetical at nearly all points to my thinking and beliefs (class-warrior activist intellectual, after a fashion; I write poetry and comics for fucks sake), but more to the core is my disavowal of public argument. I find it unseemly. The use of the stage or the platform, the opportunity and the gift of that place, should be used to enrich people, to bring them hope and tidings of promise, and to rouse the fires of their hearts. It is not a place to bully.
I feel a certain disdain for having not taken more time to gain a deeper knowledge of presidential oratory. I am confident Clinton and Bush Sr. composed some of their speeches to the extent of being considered the authors, but I feel the West Wing was quite accurate in portraying the state of presidential speech writing, and the merits of dedicating a staff who through their faculty aspire to invest the voice of the presidency with a rich nobility to stir and illuminate the minds of the people.
A little over the top there, but hell, you never reach the moon if you don't shoot for it. So damn restraint, and damn the fault of us all who find emotion and exclamation to be un-American and unworthy of leadership. Red is the color of passion and the blood of patriots.
O's speech did the trick. The fire is roused, and I'm back scaling the walls of interest in politics.
Good night, and good luck.
Damn, speecherific! Got some twittering speech positing about modern polical speaking, because of course, the 'Bama WROTE HIS SPEECH! Yeah! That's a boy, bring the noise and bring the funk! The basic question is does McCain write his speeches? Certainly as a congressman he has given speeches written himself, but more than likely in the last 5 months certainly, and likely for some time even longer, he has not been the author of his words. Certainly,like Bush, he has edited and provided imput, but one of the features of the Repub machine is their speech writing. It's been in full effect since Reagan of course.
It has been some time since I was disowned of a complete disregard for W's speaking ability. He is a willful figure, and his speeches, it was some years ago were pointed out to me, are structured as arguments. This clarification was important. I can relate to and see his ability as practiced in speaking, though his faculties for ad-libed speaking are clearly poor (and personally an embarassment as an American), and it affirms my dislike of his speaking. For one, his content and message are antithetical at nearly all points to my thinking and beliefs (class-warrior activist intellectual, after a fashion; I write poetry and comics for fucks sake), but more to the core is my disavowal of public argument. I find it unseemly. The use of the stage or the platform, the opportunity and the gift of that place, should be used to enrich people, to bring them hope and tidings of promise, and to rouse the fires of their hearts. It is not a place to bully.
I feel a certain disdain for having not taken more time to gain a deeper knowledge of presidential oratory. I am confident Clinton and Bush Sr. composed some of their speeches to the extent of being considered the authors, but I feel the West Wing was quite accurate in portraying the state of presidential speech writing, and the merits of dedicating a staff who through their faculty aspire to invest the voice of the presidency with a rich nobility to stir and illuminate the minds of the people.
A little over the top there, but hell, you never reach the moon if you don't shoot for it. So damn restraint, and damn the fault of us all who find emotion and exclamation to be un-American and unworthy of leadership. Red is the color of passion and the blood of patriots.
O's speech did the trick. The fire is roused, and I'm back scaling the walls of interest in politics.
Good night, and good luck.
Nothing like replacing that hour and a half you hoped to spend on the creative endeavor of your purview arguing with the argument bunny.
I've just discovered typing son of a bitch, is fun. Son of a bitch. Just the keystrokes, its like a dance for your fingers. Non-sticky finger fun.
I am such a twitterer. Seriously, so addicted. Everything reduced to 140 word blurbs.
Webcomic, oh how I want to post to you. Oh how I don't think I will sleep tonight. Trying to puzzle out why I should need to sleep. What needs to happen tomorrow that cannot happen tonight. Also, wondering if i can walk to work, probably not. Or rather possible? Who knows?
I was very happy to open The Amber Spyglass and see quotes from both Rainer Maria Rilke, John Ashbury, and William Blake as the epigraph. I mean fuck o all, you put their stuff at the front of your book, I will read whatever the fuck you write. I have never seen any use a line from the Duino Elegies as an epigraph, which is dumb. Every line of the Elegies should be carved into every mountain range on earth. No child should be ignorant of Rilke or the elegies, and damn if I won't bless Phil Pullman for remedying that.
On a similar note which I am equally pleased by, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince looks very good based on the trailer I saw today.
I've gone way off now, and I'm sorry, but you can't follow. See you once they fold away this night.
I've just discovered typing son of a bitch, is fun. Son of a bitch. Just the keystrokes, its like a dance for your fingers. Non-sticky finger fun.
I am such a twitterer. Seriously, so addicted. Everything reduced to 140 word blurbs.
Webcomic, oh how I want to post to you. Oh how I don't think I will sleep tonight. Trying to puzzle out why I should need to sleep. What needs to happen tomorrow that cannot happen tonight. Also, wondering if i can walk to work, probably not. Or rather possible? Who knows?
I was very happy to open The Amber Spyglass and see quotes from both Rainer Maria Rilke, John Ashbury, and William Blake as the epigraph. I mean fuck o all, you put their stuff at the front of your book, I will read whatever the fuck you write. I have never seen any use a line from the Duino Elegies as an epigraph, which is dumb. Every line of the Elegies should be carved into every mountain range on earth. No child should be ignorant of Rilke or the elegies, and damn if I won't bless Phil Pullman for remedying that.
On a similar note which I am equally pleased by, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince looks very good based on the trailer I saw today.
I've gone way off now, and I'm sorry, but you can't follow. See you once they fold away this night.
We played "Where's the Wendigo?" on the bus this weekend. It was dancy dance dance time and now we're gonna light your ass on fire.
Frustration disappation = evening proliferation!
New blogs, new novels, new abusive alter-egos!
New blogs, new novels, new abusive alter-egos!
OCTOBER 2008