Productivity asymptotically approaching 0. I like the literary saloon. I think it’s funny that they call a NYT article about Bolaño’s alleged heroin use stunningly uninformative. I appreciate their grouchy, translation-obsessed English righteousness. I met a nice guy who likes to talk about his former alleged heroin use. I just coined the phrase “human acid tabby” in an email. An email… to you! Did you get it? I allegedly ate two Motrin IB yesterday. Today I am thinking about but not heeding this song:
GET OFF THE INTERNET!!!!!!!
UPDATE: I am so full of shit, I wrote all that having listened to one song. I was excited to find its existence; who knows if it’s any good or not? It has to be good; it’s siltbreeze on FMU. seriously, I am a human acid tabby.
UPDATE: It is awesome!!!!!!
Over the last week or so, I’ve occasionally heard hilarious, breathless, deranged readings of Elizabeth Alexander’s Presidential inauguration poem, “Praise Song for the Day,” on WFMU. This morning, as it happened, DJ Kenny G was doing an entire show devoted to different listeners’ remixes and interpretations. Some of the funniest ones, in my opinion, don’t alter the text at all. I enjoyed sort of recognizing the poem, but wondering what the hell was going on, and then, as more of it came out, “the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables,” my smile cements itself and, however mean-spirited it is, it’s glad-making nonetheless. James Urbaniak’s rendition does change the text, but to great effect:
* * *
If you live in NYC, which I do not, you must go to the South First gallery in Williamsburg this Friday evening for the opening of a new sculpture show by my favorite young artist in America, Zak Kitnick. This show opening, along with bialies, “midnight knishes”, and unprotected sex, is among the only real reasons to live in New York City anymore.
‘you have model breath’
‘you have model breath’
your breath smells like
teeth stung by the acid
of stomach bile
& & &
say that much, no
mayo, the little hairs
inside Tod’s nostrils,
those “gay tubes of leather”
no reeking lamp
or academic paunch
I prefer the milkbone mouth
of the Labrador
You know how your little brother Spronky covers his eyes and thinks that means you can’t see him? That’s what I’m doing today here on my blog. My paws are over my eyes. You can’t see me. I’m writing in my journal. There is a hot babysitter kneeling next to an ottoman. It is 1989. She has a Peter Gabriel tape in her purse. She is wearing a scarf. Birth control has been invented.
You know those stickers on bikes that say this bike is a pipe bomb? What is the deal with those stickers?
I’m tired today. I saw Dept. of Eagles at the Cafe du Nord last night. Early show. They were terrific. This is the sentence about how I am too sleepy to write anything worth reading, unless you are writing an article about Monday, January 26, 2009, and what sleepy, overweight guys thought about on that day.
I’m trying out Pandora today, because all my regular internet radio stations are acting unreliably. Television Personalities begat Field Mice begat Modern Lovers demos.
I was sleepy yesterday, as well. I ate a passel of Chinese Food. Saddleshoos was wearing a vintage sequin jacket that had the same effect on me that a great poem can have.
Where’s the best?
All the beef,
P.S. Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle, the new Bill Callahan solo record, is also terrific. “Recommended.”
To investigate: Numero Group