Good evening, everyone! I would like to direct all of you to the following link: Soundike
Notice anything strange about that? If you don’t, go here: CLLCT
Now do you see anything strange? Oh my - they’re selling my CD! For money! When it’s obviously free right there!
I’m slightly honored, but mostly annoyed. What really bothers me the most is that they have the following quote on their website:
“Our music service is absolutely legal in all countries and all states.”
Like, woah. That’s a pretty bold statement! I would like to humbly disagree; just because it’s legal in Tijuana or Taiwan or wherever the hell Soundike (what the hell kind of name is that, anyway?) is located, doesn’t mean it’s legal in other places.
So, what do I do? I call piracy! Yeah, you heard me right. Soundike is reverse-pirating my free music and trying to make money off of it! I demand retribution!
So, Soundike, I’m giving you until 12 PM tomorrow night to compensate me, or I shall call the RIAA!
My demanded payment? I demand a hundred well-groomed kittens, delivered to my house promptly! Also, they must be carried to my home via fancy couch - any crates and heads will roll.
SOUNDIKE, BEWARE! YOUR TIME HAS COME, THE SECRET OWL HATH SPOKEN!
Justin Waddell is one of the hosts of the CHUD.com podcast as well as being a sometimes contributer to CHUD.com. He’s also written some of the funniest blog posts/short humorous essays ever. Recently, on his CHUD blog, he wrote an entry called “Turtle Rescue” that was so fucking funny I had to share it with you. Be sure to bookmark his blog, cuz you’re going to want to read everything this guy writes. So without further ado, Turtle Rescue:
Hey.
On my way to work the other day, I spotted a turtle in the middle of the road. That’s a weird, unexpected sight - like seeing a peacock on your way home from work, which also happened to me a while back. Maybe my car spits out some kind of Dr. Doolittle-vibe or something. If so, that’s some special feature that was included, care of dealer oversight. I bought my station wagon as bare bones as possible. My in-dash cassette deck stands as a rock-solid testament to this fact.
Anyway, I had basically made it to work when I saw the turtle. The shelled gentleman was smack in the middle of the second to last corporate road I navigate before leaping from my car and sprinting into work to quickly begin a glorious workday. The street the turtle was crossing typically isn’t very busy - but still, what is he? Crazy? I drove past him, instantly felt guilt settle in, and decided to turn my heap-on-wheels around. Now, it would have been pretty exciting to perform one of those screeching turns you see expertly executed in old 70s cop shows. Or even some kind of balletic turn, like the car was on a lazy Susan. I wish I could brag about accomplishing either kind, but my turnaround was pretty long-winded. Picture the blog you are currently reading as a car turning, and you should have some idea.
By the time I got back to the turtle, he had backtracked. He was at the side of the road, and his shell was up against this fairly tall curb that he had no possible way of climbing. And, I guess knowing this - that somehow his decision-making skills had let him down - he had emptied his bladder in terror. He looked like a tossed, green water balloon. This, of course, broke my heart. I mean, I was already gearing up to rescue him, but now it was imperative. The tiny pool of piss he was standing in underscored the fact that my instincts had indeed been correct on this one. This was not some devil-may-care critter crossing the road like some reptilian badass who couldn’t give a shit about what lay in wait for him beyond his comfy habitat. You know, like this guy:
This was a turtle that, like so many of us have done, simply made a bad life choice.
So, I got out of my car and headed towards the little guy who, as I got closer, didn’t look so little, really. He was mid-sized to kind of large. And he looked pretty weathered and old. Plus, he was cornered – not so much by any obstacles (aside from the curb), but by his galaxy-given slowness and his next to nothing reflexes. Surrounded by his own urine, all his faults in relief, I cautiously approached him. Yep. Cautiously. I mean, with all of these little details rolling around in my mind (old, cornered, large, alive), I’ll sadly admit that I started to get a little nervous. I thought, “Don’t some turtles bite? Snapping turtles, right? What does that snapping part mean?” “What if it attacked?” I’m thinking. “Do turtles hiss?” – hearing any animal hiss always gets to me. And then, a flash - what if someone saw me running from a hissing, pissing turtle? Cell phone video begets YouTube begets plastic surgery to change my face. In summary, this was not a proud moment for either of us.
Eventually, my heart won out. I swallowed my sad fear and I grabbed the old guy with two hands…like I was grabbing a big sandwich or a dictionary. Of course, I made sure to keep his possibly-dangerous head full of possibly-sharp turtle fangs pointed away from my body. As soon as I put my hands on the guy, he tucked in. Which, I’ll admit, was exactly what I was gambling on. He went indoors. He hermited up. I wanted to hug the guy.
As I carried the turtle away from the street and over the curb (which I managed in one step, thank you), I felt a bond form between us. Me and him, united inside this gaggle of boring corporate buildings, headed towards a man-made lake. And, I sympathized with him. Because, honestly, the lake didn’t look great. It looked small – to me, at least. Confining. And this turtle, maybe he was sick of the same old. Or maybe there were troubles at home or something. Maybe he was fleeing a bad relationship. Or maybe even some kind of predator or turtle bully was on the loose down there. And maybe this (currently) tucked-in reptile decided to pick up sticks and strike out on his lonesome. Take his chances on the new, the unknown. Maybe he pictured a world full of lakes - better lakes, bigger, cleaner lakes. A clean start. A starched shirt. A warm rock, baked to perfection by the sun’s rays, to lean his tired shell against. And then, I mean, it must have taken him a long time to get to the road on those little radish legs. Hours into the journey, exhausted, reality set in that he might as well be in fucking outer space. It must have been like living a waking nightmare. Sounds up close that he’d only ever heard at a distance while lounging on a pitiful micro-beach that surrounds the lake’s waters. Strange objects, way beyond his understanding, quickly attaching themselves to those sounds. The world like a fucking maze of regrets. Every single thing programmed to end his life. It must have been the single worst experience of his entire existence.
So, to cheer him up, since I was holding him like a sandwich, I pretended to take a bite. And he giggled. -Justin Waddell
I told you he was fucking funny. Now I’d like to leave you with a random song that you should love, Donovan’s “Young Girl Blues”. Donovan is a totally underrated British Invasion artist, best known for his 1966 singles “Mellow Yellow” and Sunshine Superman”, but he’s written a ton of amazing folk songs that rarely get the attention they deserve. So enjoy him.
For a while there TGIF was ruled under the iron fist of Thomas Miller and Robert Boyett. Miller-Boyett first hit it big with Happy Days, a show that I want to hate, but can’t because of how much it contributed to American culture. It contributed Ron Howard, who’d go on to narrate amazing television shows and direct utterly mediocre films. It gave us Weezer’s best music video. It gave us the term “Jump the shark”. Most of all, it gave us the Happy Days theme song, finally making the days of the week fun again.
After Happy Days, they had a couple more hits in the 80’s with Bosom Buddies and Perfect Strangers. But I was hardly alive in the 80’s, so fuck those shows. To me the golden age of Miller Boyett was in the early to mid 90’s with TGIF. They hit it big with Full House, a conservative television show about three men living together in San Fransisco. Oh irony. That show was super boring, but it was followed by Miller-Boyett’s masterpiece, Family Matters.
Family Matters is a spin-off of both Perfect Strangers and Die Hard. So shit was destined to be weird from the get go. It was groundbreaking from the start, setting a record for ugliest cast ever in an American sitcom. Harriet looked like Mrs. Huxtable, except a few steps to the left on the evolutionary charts. Not that Carl minded. I’m not saying Reginald Veljohnson is gay, but according to IMDB, he enjoys “singing and dancing in his spare time.” Imagine Carl Winslow singing and dancing through his house and tell me that wouldn’t be the gayest shit you’ve ever seen. But Family Matter’s greatest achievement was it’s spectacular descent into utter lunacy. From cloning to the Nutty Professor inspired “Stephan” to rocket packs to time machines to goddamned evil ventriloquist dummy versions of Carl and Steve, the show spun out of control in a completely glorious way. And don’t get me started on that theme song. Christ, that was a great theme song. I always tear up at “it’s the bigger love of the faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamily”, without fail.
Miller-Boyett hit it’s peak with Family Matters, but as quickly as they rose, they fell even faster with the abysmal Step-by-Step. I imagine the pitch for Step-by-Step went something like “what if all the characters in The Brady Bunch were trashy and unlikable?” I feel sorry for those kids. They had Patrick Duffy and Suzanne Somers as parents. JT, Dana, Al, Karen, Mark and the ever personality-deficient Brendan had no choice but to end up awful people. That shit’s genetic, my friend. But the worst offense the show committed was trying to stuff it’s own brand of Urkel down viewers throats: Cody. Code-man. Dude! Ch-yeah! Danaburger! He combined annoying catchphrase-ism with an annoying voice and a uncontrollable lust for his cousin, Dana. Dude could kickbox though, I’ll grant him that.
As Step-By-Step destroyed Miller-Boyett productions (not to mention Lorimar productions), another show took the proud torch of TGIF and held it high. That show was Boy Meets World. Boy Meets World is the greatest television show in the history of televison shows. What makes it particularly special to me is that it was one of the first shows to allow it’s characters to age. Hell, that was the focal point of the show. Shawn and Cory are now in high school! Cory is now dating Topanga! They’re going to college! Cory and Topanga are getting married and making everyone uncomfortable by constantly making jokes about fucking! That shit was groundbreaking.
Speaking of groundbreaking, Boy Meets World featured a casual interracial relationship between the characters of Shawn and Angela. The best part about it was that it was never the focus of a show, never a big deal to anyone, and they never tried to play it up, even for an easy “you so white!” joke. It was just a pretty white guy and pretty black girl getting together. And that’s beautiful! Angela wasn’t the stereotypical African-American woman you normally see on television. She never snapped her fingers and said “no you di-in’t!”. As far as I know, she hates Koolaid. In fact, now that I think about it, she was a pretty boring character. No real personality at all. Is that more or less progressive than a stereotypical sassy black woman? If she was a teenaged Jackée, would that be better or worse? These are questions I’m not qualified to answer, but I am fully-qualified to say I’d tap that. I’d tap Topanga too, though, cuz I like a little meat on the bones. My father always said that an hourglass was better than an egg timer. Then he’d beat me. But above all I’d tap Jack and Eric’s roommate Rachel.
Goddamn, Rachel was a dream. That redheaded Goddess may have been a thinly veiled excuse for eye-candy, but boy was she FUN! Did you see how bright red her hair is? That’s really bright! How FUN! What a perfect counterpart to the wackiness that is latter-day Eric Matthews. Eric’s transformation was much like Family Matters, going more and more bizarre til it began to bend the very reality of the show. I think at one point he was a caveman who talked to squirrels. Thank God they had William Daniels to lend the show his gravitas. Mention Mr. Feeny to anyone age 16 to 21, and they will at least smile. They may even hug you. It’s like a 90’s youth fraternity. The same way previous generations were linked by their experiences in Vietnam, kids of the 90’s are united by their common love of watching Shawn yell “it’s because I LIVE IN A TRAILER, isn’t it?”, run his fingers through his hair, and storm out the Mathew’s kitchen while Mrs. Matthews covers her mouth and looks at her husband, who just frowns and shakes his head. What will he do about that boy?
Boy Meets World ran out of steam towards the end, mostly because they unable to accurately portray the decadence of college life under the watchful eye of TGIF, but we grew up with these guys. We were there when Shawn learned the truth about his real mother. When Shawn’s dad died. When Shawn joined a cult. When Shawn got caught up in the Philadelphia’s illegal undergound street fighting tournaments. Jesus, Shawn was fucked up. If tragedy visited me as frequently as it visited Mr. Hunter, I too would run my fingers through my hair at every possible opportunity. I too would grow a goatee. I too woul-UNDERPANTS! Wow. That came out of nowhere. Now I can’t stop watching it. Hypnotizing.
Knock Knock.
Who’s there?
Aunty.
Aunty who?
Aunty-climatic ending to this blog post
If you own a computer and you own an internet vehicle device, and you watch movies, and you’re interested in movies, and you want to hear news and rumors about upcoming movies and you also want to hear movie people’s opinion on movies that are currently at the movies, then you should look no further than www.CHUD.com, which, IMDB and Netflix aside, is the most wonderful place for cinema on the internet machine. It’s got writers who are either intelligent, funny, assholes, a combination of all three, or Phil Owen. To be fair to Phil Owen, he’s got a more impressive head of hair than any of ‘em.
Devin, the Editor-in-Chief/Self-loathing nerd/Kubrick lookalike of CHUD.com has started a column entitled
“Chudsploitation” that I’m really really excited about, all about exploitation films. Exploitation films are films that exploit shocking or sensational content to attract audiences. They range from Shaft to Faces of Death to Meet the Spartans (which exploits the fact that Americans aren’t really picky about what movies they watch, as long as it’s not too long to make them late for something). Famous balding fugly awesome fugly director Quentin Tarantino has been a champion of them for sometime, culminating in his box-office failure/artistically dubious/undisputably awesome collaboration with Robert Rodriguez Grindhouse, in which his testicles melted off. Since then, the interest in these “grindhouse films” has boomed into an all-time slightly higher.
According to Devin, the column’s goal will be to “write about the sickest, strangest movies ever made, films with almost no redeeming value.” And when he means sick and strange, he doesn’t mean something simple like The Truth About Cats and Dogs or I Spit on Your Grave. Too easy. His first entry was on a film entitled Goodbye Uncle Tom about “An Italian documentary crew [that] goes back in time to the pre-Civil War American South to document the excesses and horrors of slavery, intercut with modern riot footage and pro-violence black power musings. In Italian.” According to Devin the film is “racist in every possible direction, brutally misogynistic and leeringly cruel”. I don’t know about you, but my ears perk up anytime the phrases “racist” and “leeringly cruel”. Must have been all those years I grew up in Texas*.
Even though Devin is a hell of a writer and entertaining as a chimp having sex with another chimp and them both having a cigarette afterwards, you don’t even have to take his word for it. Apparently the American edit** is apparently up on Youtube, in parts. I don’t know how long it will be up for, but I have a feeling that filmmakers Gualtiero Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi aren’t the type to troll Youtube to make sure their work aren’t being pirated. I know I say this all the time, but I wish NBC was more like Gualtiero Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi. Anyway, here are some links to offend you. Even if you don’t plan on watching the whole film, I’d reccomend skipping around various scenes just to learn how awful it can feel to be a member of the human race. I’d note that they aren’t safe for work, but really, they aren’t safe for anything. Shit is vile.
*Texas is in close proximity to Alabama, which is where racism comes from.
**The American edit is dubbed and may have some cuts from the original Italian version. Not that it isn’t already utterly depraved, but if you’re a completist, I thought you should know.
Today I crawled and clawed myself from my second story bed to the thick solid planks of wood that make up my bedroom floor. Wiping the sleep from my eyes and stumbling to the kitchen to release the steady flow of water from our leaky faucet to my empty jar to it’s final destination, my human body. Another day. I get the chance at another day.
How beautiful each day is when it is not taken for granted. When the new day is taken in open arms and lifted up as high as possible. And I can feel myself. I can understand that I am this living thing, this body of organic matter and water, SO MUCH WATER. There is blood pumping out oceans of life from my little human heart, the muscle king. AND oh my! I have lungs, I have lungs! My bones, gosh, I can feel them! I know they are there. Their bleachy white and I know they will become sand again; some dust in the wind. There will come a day when we ALL get to fly.
I’m really busy working on the new collective site so today’s entry will not be about music, because that requires me to actually think.
I received this in my email the other day, it’s from a poor fellow named “Alberto George”, and he somehow managed to find a computer and email me (maybe he’s a Secret Owl Society fan?) from Cuba, despite the fact that he’s incredibly poor. The ‘eloquent’ sir wants me to help him with his druggy-inherited 4 million dollars! How could I refuse?
My name is Alberto George, and I am writing you from my home in Santa
Clara, about 165 miles east of Havana, the Capital City of Cuba. Santa
Clara is known for two landmarks; The famous Revolutionary,CheGuevera
is buried here; and it is home to one of Cuba’s largest universities,La
Universidad Central”Martha Abreu” de Las Villas.
This is a compelling story, and I beg you to be patient and read
through to the end…I was adopted in1962, at age 14 months by
Mr.Giovanni George, the Sugar, cocoa and tobacco millionaire; some say
he also made his fortune from the lucrative illicit drugs
trade.
My adoption brought so much controversy (probably because I am black
and a deaf), that Mr. George was forced by his family to put me into a
foster home at age 5 ,where I stayed until maturity; Like most Cuban
youths,I dreamt of freedom, which every one here knows is called
America; like most youths, in time, I joined an Anti-Castro group and
that merited automatic 24 hours round the clock surveillance by the
Secret Police, but this is also normal in Cuba!
Mr. George, my father nevertheless funded my education through the
above mentioned university, where I graduated in Automobile
Engineering. I am now a mechanic, making just enough to take care of my
wife Maria, and 3 boys, Junior, Jose, and Giovanni. Sadly, My father
died Few months ago; left only his wife and family (he died childless),
and I was not invited to his funeral by his family, but we mourned him
deeply; I had no memory of my real father; but I loved him for his
kindness to me; he frequently defied his family to visit me…When I got
married, he gave my wife a ring present which we later found out was a
diamond ring! His Last Will and testament was read and probated. No
mention was made of me and my family. Understandably,I carried on with
my life.
But before his death; he then invited me and my family, there he told
me that he made the deposit of (FOUR MILLION UNITED STATE
DOLLARS) in a private security deposit firm in Abidjan city of Ivory
coast,that he wanted to use this fund to invest in his cocoa
and tobacco business in Ivory Coast…He then handedall the deposit
documents of the consignment to me andask me to keep it confidential,
that even the Security Deposit Firm does not know that the Consignment
kept in their custody contains money; According to him, hedeposited it
as a family valuables in my name; He thenexplained to me that he has
instructed the Ivory CoastSecurity Deposit Firm to contact me as the
Rightbeneficiary to the consignment; therefore arrange and
ship the consignment to me.
He again warned me to maintain the highest level ofconfidentiality of
the consignment, especially to his family members as they will deny me
the possesion of the money if they find out that such money has been
deposited in my name as the beneficiary! I therefore kept the documents
confidentially as instructed by my late father waiting for the right
time to transfer the consignment to safety abroad and arrange to travel
out of Cuba with my family!
Some weeks ago, I received a letter from the private Security deposit
firm in Ivory Coast, and the contents of that letter put me into shock!
The manager of the Firm asked me to contact them immediately for the
arrangement of transfering my inheritance to me as they are now facing
political crisis/war which may start anytime from now and they never
know when it will come to an end! I kept the letter for a week
without mentioning it to my wife. Eventually I revealed everything to
her…apparently My late father,Mr. George had provided for us after all!
The letter from the Manager explained that the political crisis may
bring about the losing of the consignments in their custody; that they
have alerted all their clients to come forward and claim their
consignments….He also explained to me that according to the terms and
agreement reached with my late father, the consignment deposited as a
family valuables were to be delivered to me (The Beneficiary) as
instructed by my late father; The manager of this firm in his letter
therefore invited me to come forward to Ivory Coast, to claim my
Inheritance! Or arrange with the them to ship the consignment to me.
But this simple invitation to travel to Ivory Coast or arrange with
them to transfer the consignment to Cuba here is fraught with problems!
I have no International Passport! It is impossible to travel out
of Cuba,unless with special permission which will of course take months
of paperwork to procure…As an Anti-Castro sympathizer , I have
absolutely no hope of leaving Cuba legally…The only option is to leave
by illegal ferry to the American Coast of Miami, which is extremely
dangerous…Every one knows that success rate is about 20%, the unlucky
get captured and repatriated back, to prison! But the rich and the
connected have a better chance by using low flying aircraft ( which
will beat the Cuban Radar) to smuggle them selves out! And there is no
way I can transfer the consignment to Cuba here as Cuban government as
well as my family members may seize the money!
I therefore desperately need your help! I need you to contact the
Ivory Coast Company on my behalf and arrange with them to ship the
consignment to you as the “Consignee”; secure the fund from the
Company, Once the money is secured, I will make the usual
underground deal to be smuggled out of Cuba by aircraft, to freedom!
I really need your help urgently! And there is absolutely NO RISK to
you in this transaction; The consignment will arrive your end through
aircargo fully insured with its necessary documents; I and my
family are the ones at risk as we cannot travel out of Cuba easily to
meet with you…
If you are willing to help me recover this my inheritance, please so
indicate in your return reply mail and I will follow up with more
details of the Ivory coast Company contact address and also more
details of this transaction. You will then contact the Ivory Coast
Security Deposit Company as the “Consignee” and thereafter arrange with
them to ship the consignment to you to close the deal on my behalf
and put the (FOUR MILLION DOLLARS) safely into the Banking
system…
In consideration of your expenses during the course of this
transaction, I freely offer you 30% of the total fund…..
Looking forward to your urgent reply,
Sincerely,
Alberto George
HERE IS MY RESPONSE:
Good lord, that’s terrible! I’ll certainly help you out; it’s a good thing you decided to contact the Collective. We’re a very anti-Castro group, and we’ve plenty of money to spare for a good cause. How could I refuse to help my fellow man in need?
I must say, you’re an incredibly lucky man (no offense meant); my grandfather happens to live in Cocody! What’s the address of the firm; I’ll call him as soon as you’ve responded. If everything goes well we can meet you in Florida within two days!
Please respond as quickly as possible, Alberto; I’ll be waiting.
For some reason, he has yet to respond. Perhaps Castro has risen from the dead and eaten him up?
Hello again!
I hope your week has been wonderful.
Here are some “things.”
J.MACK
The drawing pictured above is by my good friend Jessica Mack. I lived with Jessica a few years ago and must say she was one of the best roommates I’ve ever known. I looked forward to our conversations which usually lasted into the wee hours of the morning, her smile, bike rides, walks to the used book store or spikes veggie hot dog stand.
She is so darn inspiring. One of those people in the world who live their whole life like it itself is a work of art (the way we all should).
Each painting was a newborn baby she had carried inside her and birthed. The love she had for each was altogether staggering and igniting. I have been fortunate enough to see her explosive progress over the past few years and now seems a good time to share some of her work with you. I hope you enjoy what you see (keep in mind these paintings and drawings are a year old). I’ve seen some of the new works and I can’t begin to stress how amazingly far she is taking all that she creates.
TEA AND RECORDS
Almost every night for the past week I’ve been lucky enough to share many late nights with my co-worker, friend, neighbor and musical explorer/teammate, David Bohill (he was a member of Sunburned and is currently a member of See-through band). Our nights, now affectionately dubbed “tea and records,” involve the two of us discussing and tossing around many subjects such as; music, bands, artists, work gossip, dogs we love, ideal “bands, “etc. And of course, listening to a whole bunch of mind blowingly amazing music. Every night there is a new Coltrane record (it was ascension last night) and a few nights back it was TALK TALK.
I am going to focus this week on MARK HOLLIS, singer of the aforementioned band. His record (S/T), released in 1998 might be the only thing you should be listening between the hours of 2:30 and 3:30am. A time when there is no way to know if you are up late at night or if you have crossed that invisible line into the earliest of morning. It has been my soundtrack for this transitional period, which I have come face to face with on many of these winter nights. Mark helps me to come down off the mountain of the day/night I have just lived and delivers me into my warm bed, kissing each of my ears. The textures created on this album are pure. They are gentle waves lapping at the winter sand, each more beautiful than the last. Listen for yourself and be the judge.
Hello,
Thank you for looking at this right now
but
remember to embrace the “real world”
and
don’t get lost in this one please.
Enjoy.
This week I have had the opportunity to explore many different forms of media including but not limited to; records, movies, magazines and novels. Here is a list and some thoughts…
MEDULLA by Bjork
If you haven’t heard this record you should give it a listen. If you’ve heard it, give it another listen. Wintertime is the perfect time to listen to Bjork. She might just be the goddess of snow, an angel sent by jack frost to sing us to sleep on nights when we find ourselves squeezing legs to chest in bed, attempting to beat the chill of the winter wind knocking at our doors and howling through the trees at our windows. Or perhaps she is from the future. Here now, in our time to be enjoyed on public transportation, aiding us to obliterate the disconnected feeling one can get while on a bus/train full of people (all looking at their shoes). She is my warm blanket. Listen to this record on headphones and enjoy the “sphere” of sound the pure tones create around your head. Oh and by the way, this record was made only with vocals (with some computer help). Yes, it’s true. LOOK
DEAD MAN (film) by Jim Jarmusch
I found myself get that feeling watching this movie again this past week. The feeling over takes me, rendering me speechless. This “feeling” comes when I witness something (in this case an artists piece) that is so overwhelmingly “perfect,” to me. It is everything a movie should be. I thought to myself, “this is my favorite movie I’ve ever seen.” I have a hard time describing this feeling and the way this movie makes me feel so please see it for yourself and let me know what you think. AND remember that’s Neil Young doing the soundtrack. Trust me on this one.
THE WORLD DOESN’T END by Charles Simic (poetry/prose)
My good friend Christina Spinelli gave me this collection for the holidays.
“The stone mirror which works poorly.
Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or it’s dim-
ness, who’s to say? In the hush your heart sounds
like a black cricket.”
POST PARTUM by The Watery Graves of Portland and/et Geneviève (song) Listen here
AND A VIDEO
For you.
It IS sideways
So turn your computer or don’t.
(the road is Rt.44 in Mass. The song is Diane Cluck-”The turnaround road.”) Click Click
