cheese it, the cops!

April may be the cruelest month, but October is a bitch...

 

 

Man. Woman. Nature. History. Art. Birth. Death. Infinity. Three chords and Truth.

https://www.veteranstodaynews.com/2017/10/09/dispatches-from-wolf-country-old-age-should-rage/

 

 

Not about being deranged, about becoming deranged

 

 

Latest piece from Vets: http://www.veteranstoday.com/2014/12/20/merry-christmas-is-what-they-tell-me/ I thought I was writing a music piece...go figure?

 

Comments are again fascinating...how anyone can go to the places my readers go from where I start amazes me and kind of scares me. Now, get in line with the 200 Mosaic laws or the Zionists will send a drone after you. 

 

Christmas should not be about being a crazy sonofabitch. That's for New Year's, President's Day and St Patrick's Day. Christmas may be about hope, peace, love overcome by futility and inadequacy and frustration -- Frank Costanza beating a man senseless trying to buy a doll for George and thus inventing Festivus, which is a logical reaction to stimulus -- but it's not about being a crazy sonofabitich conspiracy nut. Didn these people not get the memo?

 

Anyway, nobody ever wrote a good song about President's Day..except maybe this one. 

 

Carol King wrote "Don't Bring Me Down?" Really...

 

You know, Carol King wrote this. What the hell, ehh...

The oddest things make you get all philosophic...which I suppose is why philosophers and those of us who are kinda, sorta like that, the modern Philosophe's or Philosopotasters (if you're not sure what that means, ask Crispin) lead such odd lives. Anyway, I saw a piece in American Songwriter this morning and it got me thinking about, of all things, rock and roll as Apollo's chariot, so to speak. The fact that a truly great rock and roll band has to be able to cover other people's stuff exceptionally well while finding their own way. And, some people you might not expect to have any patience with anyone can handle spoiled prima donnas better than most. But, mainly the fact that lots of us had our lives and sanity saved by rock and roll...

Full piece at the Defeatists. Lots of music. Maybe even some good thinking. Maybe not. Figure it out. Since Typepad has a problem with comments at the Defeatists for some reason, feel free to post here or just email me at [email protected].

 

Actively seek by letting them arise...

 

Heidigger wrote someplace "Let being be..." I think most of us agree that after the first few chapters of Being and Time, Heidigger is basically useless, impossible to translate meaningfully into German from Heidiggerdido let alone to English...anyway, moments of clarity come from odd places. And, what serves me as clarity may obscure for another...so, when you find it, enjoy...

 

Howdy Neighbor Howdy...

 

In which Crusader AXE insults Vanderbilt Divinity School, the Academy of Country Music, and people who don't get country music while insulting the current gang of people supposedly singing it...and confesses dreaming of a Nudie suit and talking about them without showing a picture or mentioning Porter Waggoner, due probably to penis envy. (Long before Randy Johnson, Porter was known around Nashville as the"Big Unit" and it had nothing to do with his slider/fastball combination.)

  

Tell me, Crispy, of what philosophical school is Krampus an alumni?

In which Crusader AXE explores Musicology, Existentialism, Mysticism, and several beautiful girls with marvelous voices, a couple of Texans, a Geezer or two and recommends some Bing Crosby as angst producing and reflective poetry. 

on more serious matters, it's elton john night on am idol. the item randy jackson just called 'one of the greatest songs ever written' describes candles in the wind as never knowing who to cling to when the rains set in. elton john starts sucking before he wakes up in the morning, sucks all day, and keeps right on sucking after he falls asleep at night. then he sucks. he's done it for decades and been knighted for it. if i wanted to teach louis farrakhan what it means to be white (as he's taught me what it means to be black) - utterly and extremely white without a hint of color, like a blank sheet of copy paper - i'd just hit the poor chump with the very best of elton. here's another twenty-hectare picture of bashar el-assad:

there are many differences between libya and, say, iraq. one is that a rebellion was really underway at the moment we intervened. another was that a slaughter by the government was actually in progress. you know you get a different vibe if you were listening to someone like mo nabbous, pleading for help for his city ("are you just going to watch us die?") and his rebellion. nabbous was killed in gaddafi's initial assault on benghazi, which was prevented from total success by western intervention right at that moment. too late for mo. but not too late for so many others. listen to what his widow is saying, for example.

in iraq, rumsfeld or cheney just worked on a fantasy that we'd be greeted as liberators. here we don't have to fantasize. we can't control the entire unfolding situation. but we actually prevented a rebellion against gaddafi from being crushed and a city full of people, or several cities full of people, from being destroyed, right there, at that very moment.

that's why i'm not even going for the objections that run like: but obama didn't adequately consult with congress; we don't have a well-defined strategy or a clear statement of our goals; we don't have - for god's sake - an exit strategy. well you didn't have 24 more hours, much less 24 more years as these approaches seem to suggest. talking heads are objecting to the 'improvisational' nature of the operation. well, obviously. all these are just ways saying: yes, we're going to just watch you die.

it's tough collecting pop lyrics that suck. where to begin? but here's a conspicuous piece of claptrap: katy perry's 'firework.' it's the sort of hackneyed self-esteem anthem with which the music industry bludgeons teenage girls, of course. it will be a prom theme for the next twenty years, like 'i believe i can fly.' as the actual writer immortal technique might put it, listening to katy peddle this hooey is more painful than watching r kelly piss on your kids (though the two experiences are similar). but i also like the basic narrative arc: take the tweeny self, turn it into the plastic bag from american beauty and blow it around (except this bag wants to start again, so stomp on it, pick it up, and blow it around some more); put it on a diet, transforming it into a house of cards, then knock it down and cave it in; kill it and bury it as its corpse screams, deafening the world; then set it on fire, launch it into the sky, and blow it up over its home town. that's exactly what i'd like to do with this song. no bonobo writes that badly, or pays $1.29 on itunes for a song like that. youtube lists 143,775,329 views.

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind
Wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards
One blow from caving in

Do you ever feel already buried deep
Six feet under scream
But no one seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you
Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

 

so below is blind willie mctell's amazing song "southern can is mine," fairly recently covered by white stripes. and you thought gangsta rap was nasty. a few observations. true, it's disturbing. then again, it's very funny, for a number of reasons. it's a "double entendre" of an interesting sort; "southern can" is certainly a substitute for a another phrase, probably the one usually performed in bars and brothels; i'd suggest "bama ass." mctell hurries through the thing so fast that it washes over you and you don't know what he's talking about: but almost every phrase is perfectly clear. the thing is a virtuoso performance, for speed and in other respects; blind willie mctell was incomparable. it is even affectionate at points, and you can see maybe "sweet ass" in a couple of the verses. and it is certainly hyperbolic; i think he's *threatening her grandmother.* i'll throw up a similarly extreme ma rainey lyric at some point.

Southern Can is Mine
Blind Willie McTell

Now looka here mama let me tell you this
If you wants to get crooked I'm gonna give you my fist
You might read from Revelations back to Genesee
But if you get crooked, your southern can belongs to me
Ain't no need you bringin no jive to me
Cause your southern can is mine
Might go uptown have me arrested and have me put in jail
Some hotshot got money come and throw my bail
Soon as I get out, hit the ground
Your southern can is worth a thousand, half a pound (?)
Ain't no need of bringing no stuff to me
cause your southern can is mine
You might take it from the south you might carry it up north
but understand you can't rule or either be my boss
Take it from the east, hide it in the west
When I get it mama, your can won't see no rest.
Ain't no need of bringing no stuff to me
cause your southern can is mine
(in the morning)
your southern can belongs to me
(i'm not dreamin)
your southern can belongs to me.
Ah ashes to ashes mama, and sin to sin,
every time I hit you you'll think I've got a dozen hands.
Give you a punch through that barb-wire fence
Every time I hit you you'll say I've got no sense
Ain't no need of bringing no stuff to me
cause your southern can is mine
(every bit of it)
southern can belongs to me
Get me a brick out of my backyard
give you the devil if you get kinda hard
Ain't no need of bringing no jive here honey
cause your southern can is mine
(you hear me cryin)
southern can belongs to me
Spank it a little bit, boy [guitar run].
Ah, your southern can is mine.
Now if I catch ya mama down in the heart of town
take me a brand-new a brick and tear your can on down.
Ain't no need you bringin no stuff to me,
because your southern can belongs to me
(I'm talkin to ya)
your southern can belongs to me.
You may be deathbed sick and mama graveyard bound
I'll make your can moan like a hound
Ain't no need you bringin no stuff to me
because your southern can is mine
(you hear me talkin)
southern can belongs to me.
{Guitar run.} Oh spank it like that. That the way Ruthie Mae like it (?).
Cause your southern can is mine.
Sit there unsteady with your eyes all red
what I said get your grandma dead.
Ain't no need of bringing no jive to me
cause your southern can is mine
You got to stop your barkin and raising the deuce
I'll grab you mama and turn every way but loose
Ain't no need of bringing no jive here honey
cause your southern can belongs to me
(every bit of it)
southern can belongs to me.
[Guitar run.] Aww, whup it boy, that's the way the people like that thing.
Ain't no need of bringing no jive here honey
cause your southern can is mine
(you hear me talkin)
your southern can belongs to me.
Might swiddle (?) like a tadpole
let it jump like a frog
Every time I hit it you'll holler
lawd lawd lawd?
Ain't no need of bringing no jive here honey
cause your southern can is mine
(you hear me talkin)
southern can belongs to me.
Now play it a little bit, just whup it.
Aww shucks. Play that thing boy.
Southern can belongs to me.