Day After Tomorrow
-Tom Waits
I got your letter today
And I miss you all so much, here
I can't wait to see you all
And I'm counting the days, dear
I still believe that there's gold
At the end of the world
And I'll come home
To Illinois
On the day after tomorrow
It is so hard
And it's cold here
And I'm tired of taking orders
And I miss old Rockford town
Up by the Wisconsin border
But I miss you won't believe
Shoveling snow and raking leaves
And my plane will touch tomorrow
On the day after tomorrow
I close my eyes
Every night
And I dream that I can hold you
They fill us full of lies
Everyone buys
About what it means to be a soldier
I still don't know how I'm supposed to feel
About all the blood that's been spilled
Look out on the street
Get me back home
On the day after tomorrow
You can't deny
The other side
Don't want to die
Any more than we do
What I'm trying to say,
Is don't they pray
To the same God that we do?
Tell me, how does God choose?
Whose prayers does he refuse?
Who turns the wheel?
And who throws the dice
On the day after tomorrow?
Mmmmmmm...
I'm not fighting
For justice
I am not fighting
For freedom
I am fighting
For my life
And another day
In the world here
I just do what I've been told
You're just the gravel on the road
And the one's that are lucky
One's come home
On the day after tomorrow
And the summer
It too will fade
And with it comes the winter's frost, dear
And I know we too are made
Of all the things that we have lost here
I'll be twenty-one today
I've been saving all my pay
And my plane will touch down
On the day after tomorrow
And my plane it will touch down
On the day after tomorrow
maandag, april 25, 2005
zondag, april 10, 2005
Camilla Fever
There's a new disease making its way round the island since yesterday afternoon and it's called Camilla Fever.
One of the first signs of Camilla Fever is marrying some really homely looking guy with chimp ears and a complex about his lack of hair which causes him to constantly brush his comb-over back over his balding scalp with his bony, effete fingers and mutter intellectual fallacies like tut-tut.
And of course, once you have Camilla Fever it means your face begins to resemble a horse's ass only maybe a little cleaner.
And isn't it ironic that on the day the Prince marries a horse, the most famous horse race in England, The Grand National, is held a few hours later just in time for the Camilla Parker-Bowles entry to make her escape from the wedding reception and over to the track where she finished 8th and made all but one jump.
They say she has a bit of a horse face the poor old girl but personally, after the ceremony I've become convinced that she is really a man, not a woman. And she isn't even very convincing as a woman.
Can you imagine what the spawn of these two would look like? The Royal Family should be thanking Christ that Princess Diana's womb had been available to pinch out a few decent looking blokes because really, the offspring of Charles and Camilla would be like some horrific genetic experiment which produce mutations of royalty who clap their feet together and walk on their hands.
Slumped over on the sofa in the midst of a terrific hangover and staring off at the decrepit ceremonies one realises how popular hats have become. The Irish milliner who designed Camilla's hat had some interesting tales to tell:
His beloved companion was his late dog, Mr Pig, who recently died. Mr Pig treated most celebrities with disdain but was said to have developed a special affection for Mrs Parker Bowles.
He recalled one occasion when Mrs Parker Bowles was receiving a fitting and Mr Pig "lay at her feet, gazing up at her adoringly".
Hey, is he sure that wasn't Charles?
But anyway, hats were such a big thing yesterday, Camilla wore two of them: First a straw hat, overlaid with ivory French lace and trimmed with a fountain of feathers. And for the more formal blessing ceremony in the Gothic St. George's Chapel in Windsor Castle, Camilla switched to a feathered, semicircular headdress.
Everywhere you looked it looked as though pheasants had taken to nesting in ugly women's hair.
Not only that, but the food was crap as well.
Really, a 24-inch organic fruit wedding cake? Ugh. So you'd better not have been hungry if you were bored enough to go to the Royal Wedding reception because they were passing out stuff like Egg and cress on granary bread, Mini vegetarian pasties, Potted shrimp bridge rolls, etc. What? No Jellied Moose Nose?
And if you found the ceremony boring, you could have tried distracting yourself by doing something useful. Throne Out had lovely ideas on how to convert your Charles & Di mugs into Charles & Camilla mugs.
Personally, I found it more interesting to countdown the number of days until Prince William's receding hairline finally catches up with him and erupts into a full blown case of male pattern baldness. It appears we're almost there already. In another few months the Prince of Wales will have to teach Prince William the art of the comb-over and how to constantly flick the remaining wisps of hair on his head in a self-indulgent gesture of vanity doomed for failure, if he hasn't started already.
*****
I certainly hope there are enough Crayola colours to keep the revolutions going.
What Color For Minsk?
The author points out that "The Georgians had the Rose, the Ukrainians Orange as the symbol of their peaceful revolution. What will the Belarusians choose to symbolize their struggle for democracy, freedom and dignity? It is only a question of time to know the answer."
Citizens Unite! Interior decorators and fashion designers are giving falsified elections and the subsequent protests a bad name. Belarus says, we don't want no stinkin' freedom. Not if someone's going to colour it sepia or taupe before the placards are even dry!
*****
Don't want the week ending before noting Saul Bellow's death.
"En reléguant les rituels de la chasse, de la pêche au gros ou de la tauromachie au rayon des accessoires palliatifs de l'angoisse, Bellow refuse un code coulé dans le moule puritain du XIXe siècle et refaçonné par les blessures et les désillusions de l'après-première guerre mondiale. Par ce défi direct lancé à Ernest Hemingway, dont la stature écrase alors depuis vingt ans les lettres américaines, Saul Bellow montre sa détermination à ouvrir de nouveaux territoires à l'imaginaire."
Not only that but it appears that even a writer with as much talent as Bellow has to have his death swept under the rug by the hoopla over the Dead Pope and the Dead Prince Rainier. And then, perhaps out of jealousy, Prince Ernst August of Hanover, 51, Caroline's third husband hasn't quite gotten into the dying act yet but settled for the slightly less dramatic acute pancreatic disorder, a disease commonly associated with heavy drinking.
*****
Charles Dickens: Please, sir, I'd like a martini.
Bartender: Sure thing. Olive or twist?
James Joyce: I'll take a Guinness.
Bartender: So Charles Dickens was in here yesterday.
James Joyce: (drinks)
Bartender: And he asked for a martini and I said, "Olive or twist?"
James Joyce: (drinks)
Bartender: You see, it's funny because he wrote "Oliver Twist."
James Joyce: What a shitty joke.
Ernest Hemingway: Gin.
Bartender: So Charles Dickens was in here two days ago.
Ernest Hemingway: Joyce already told me that story. Fuck off.
Virginia Woolf: I'll take your second-best cognac and unadulterated
experience.
Bartender: We don't have that. This is a bar.
Virginia Woolf: Patriarchy! (drowns)
*****
In case you were interested: The Cheerless Junky Song
There's a new disease making its way round the island since yesterday afternoon and it's called Camilla Fever.
One of the first signs of Camilla Fever is marrying some really homely looking guy with chimp ears and a complex about his lack of hair which causes him to constantly brush his comb-over back over his balding scalp with his bony, effete fingers and mutter intellectual fallacies like tut-tut.
And of course, once you have Camilla Fever it means your face begins to resemble a horse's ass only maybe a little cleaner.
And isn't it ironic that on the day the Prince marries a horse, the most famous horse race in England, The Grand National, is held a few hours later just in time for the Camilla Parker-Bowles entry to make her escape from the wedding reception and over to the track where she finished 8th and made all but one jump.
They say she has a bit of a horse face the poor old girl but personally, after the ceremony I've become convinced that she is really a man, not a woman. And she isn't even very convincing as a woman.
Can you imagine what the spawn of these two would look like? The Royal Family should be thanking Christ that Princess Diana's womb had been available to pinch out a few decent looking blokes because really, the offspring of Charles and Camilla would be like some horrific genetic experiment which produce mutations of royalty who clap their feet together and walk on their hands.
Slumped over on the sofa in the midst of a terrific hangover and staring off at the decrepit ceremonies one realises how popular hats have become. The Irish milliner who designed Camilla's hat had some interesting tales to tell:
His beloved companion was his late dog, Mr Pig, who recently died. Mr Pig treated most celebrities with disdain but was said to have developed a special affection for Mrs Parker Bowles.
He recalled one occasion when Mrs Parker Bowles was receiving a fitting and Mr Pig "lay at her feet, gazing up at her adoringly".
Hey, is he sure that wasn't Charles?
But anyway, hats were such a big thing yesterday, Camilla wore two of them: First a straw hat, overlaid with ivory French lace and trimmed with a fountain of feathers. And for the more formal blessing ceremony in the Gothic St. George's Chapel in Windsor Castle, Camilla switched to a feathered, semicircular headdress.
Everywhere you looked it looked as though pheasants had taken to nesting in ugly women's hair.
Not only that, but the food was crap as well.
Really, a 24-inch organic fruit wedding cake? Ugh. So you'd better not have been hungry if you were bored enough to go to the Royal Wedding reception because they were passing out stuff like Egg and cress on granary bread, Mini vegetarian pasties, Potted shrimp bridge rolls, etc. What? No Jellied Moose Nose?
And if you found the ceremony boring, you could have tried distracting yourself by doing something useful. Throne Out had lovely ideas on how to convert your Charles & Di mugs into Charles & Camilla mugs.
Personally, I found it more interesting to countdown the number of days until Prince William's receding hairline finally catches up with him and erupts into a full blown case of male pattern baldness. It appears we're almost there already. In another few months the Prince of Wales will have to teach Prince William the art of the comb-over and how to constantly flick the remaining wisps of hair on his head in a self-indulgent gesture of vanity doomed for failure, if he hasn't started already.
*****
I certainly hope there are enough Crayola colours to keep the revolutions going.
What Color For Minsk?
The author points out that "The Georgians had the Rose, the Ukrainians Orange as the symbol of their peaceful revolution. What will the Belarusians choose to symbolize their struggle for democracy, freedom and dignity? It is only a question of time to know the answer."
Citizens Unite! Interior decorators and fashion designers are giving falsified elections and the subsequent protests a bad name. Belarus says, we don't want no stinkin' freedom. Not if someone's going to colour it sepia or taupe before the placards are even dry!
*****
Don't want the week ending before noting Saul Bellow's death.
"En reléguant les rituels de la chasse, de la pêche au gros ou de la tauromachie au rayon des accessoires palliatifs de l'angoisse, Bellow refuse un code coulé dans le moule puritain du XIXe siècle et refaçonné par les blessures et les désillusions de l'après-première guerre mondiale. Par ce défi direct lancé à Ernest Hemingway, dont la stature écrase alors depuis vingt ans les lettres américaines, Saul Bellow montre sa détermination à ouvrir de nouveaux territoires à l'imaginaire."
Not only that but it appears that even a writer with as much talent as Bellow has to have his death swept under the rug by the hoopla over the Dead Pope and the Dead Prince Rainier. And then, perhaps out of jealousy, Prince Ernst August of Hanover, 51, Caroline's third husband hasn't quite gotten into the dying act yet but settled for the slightly less dramatic acute pancreatic disorder, a disease commonly associated with heavy drinking.
*****
Charles Dickens: Please, sir, I'd like a martini.
Bartender: Sure thing. Olive or twist?
James Joyce: I'll take a Guinness.
Bartender: So Charles Dickens was in here yesterday.
James Joyce: (drinks)
Bartender: And he asked for a martini and I said, "Olive or twist?"
James Joyce: (drinks)
Bartender: You see, it's funny because he wrote "Oliver Twist."
James Joyce: What a shitty joke.
Ernest Hemingway: Gin.
Bartender: So Charles Dickens was in here two days ago.
Ernest Hemingway: Joyce already told me that story. Fuck off.
Virginia Woolf: I'll take your second-best cognac and unadulterated
experience.
Bartender: We don't have that. This is a bar.
Virginia Woolf: Patriarchy! (drowns)
*****
In case you were interested: The Cheerless Junky Song
dinsdag, april 05, 2005
Tell all the truth but tell it slant--
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind--
--Emily Dickinson
Some very interesting photos of Slavoj Žižek's miserable, hungover wedding. via The Valve.
Now here is something funny. Is it surprising that the Pope isn't just another one of the in crowd of those bloody "people"?
Ever wonder who the Pope of Dope was and where he hung out?
David Byrne Radio for the "odd variety" of music playing in (his?) office. Pshaw. I'd rather listen to Destination Unknown Radio.
Now that the old one is exiled to Iceland perhaps it's time to consider The Next Bobby Fischer. via One Good Move.
The whole "next Bobby Fischer" thing makes me wonder what he's doing in Iceland these days and then made me wonder what it might be like to read a blog written by the man himself. Well, there isn't one perse but in the search, I came across Bobby Fischer's letter to Ambassador Thordur Oskarsson, Icelandic Embassy in Tokyo, Japan asking for political asylum in Iceland, dated October 27, 2004. Send in the handwriting analysts!
Mitch Hedberg is dead but here are some quotes he left behind:
Last week I helped my friend stay put. It's a lot easier than helping someone move. I just went over to his house and made sure that he did not start to load shit into a truck.
I got my hair highlighted, because I felt some strands were more important than others.
I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.
I want to be a race car passenger: just a guy who bugs the driver. "Say man, can I turn on the radio? You should slow down. Why do we gotta keep going in circles? Can I put my feet out the window? Boy, you really like Tide."
At my hotel room, my friend came over and asked to use the phone. I said "Certainly." He said "Do I need to dial 9?" I say "Yeah. Especially if it's in the number. You can try four and five back to back real quick."
The thing about tennis is: no matter how much I play, I'll never be as good as a wall. I played a wall once. They're fucking relentless.
An escalator can never break: it can only become stairs. You would never see an "Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience."
Here's a novelty: Find of the Week really IS the find of the week.
Like this
via the links of Left Blank.
*****
I LIKE AMERICANS
Ernest Miller Hemingway
By A Foreigner
I like Americans.
They are so unlike Canadians.
They do not take their policemen seriously.
They come to Montreal to drink.
Not to criticize.
They claim they won the war.
But they know at heart that they didn't.
They have such respect for Englishmen.
They like to live abroad.
They do not brag about how they take baths.
But they take them.
Their teeth are so good.
And they wear B.V.D.'s all the year round.
I wish they didn't brag about it.
They have the second best navy in the world.
But they never mention it.
They would like to have Henry Ford for president.
But they will not elect him.
They saw through Bill Bryan.
They have gotten tired of Billy Sunday.
Their men have such funny hair cuts.
They are hard to suck in on Europe.
They have been there once.
They produced Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff.
And Jiggs.
They do not hang lady murderers.
They put them in vaudeville.
They read the Saturday Evening Post
And believe in Santa Claus.
When they make money
They make a lot of money.
They are fine people.
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind--
--Emily Dickinson
Some very interesting photos of Slavoj Žižek's miserable, hungover wedding. via The Valve.
Now here is something funny. Is it surprising that the Pope isn't just another one of the in crowd of those bloody "people"?
Ever wonder who the Pope of Dope was and where he hung out?
David Byrne Radio for the "odd variety" of music playing in (his?) office. Pshaw. I'd rather listen to Destination Unknown Radio.
Now that the old one is exiled to Iceland perhaps it's time to consider The Next Bobby Fischer. via One Good Move.
The whole "next Bobby Fischer" thing makes me wonder what he's doing in Iceland these days and then made me wonder what it might be like to read a blog written by the man himself. Well, there isn't one perse but in the search, I came across Bobby Fischer's letter to Ambassador Thordur Oskarsson, Icelandic Embassy in Tokyo, Japan asking for political asylum in Iceland, dated October 27, 2004. Send in the handwriting analysts!
Mitch Hedberg is dead but here are some quotes he left behind:
Last week I helped my friend stay put. It's a lot easier than helping someone move. I just went over to his house and made sure that he did not start to load shit into a truck.
I got my hair highlighted, because I felt some strands were more important than others.
I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.
I want to be a race car passenger: just a guy who bugs the driver. "Say man, can I turn on the radio? You should slow down. Why do we gotta keep going in circles? Can I put my feet out the window? Boy, you really like Tide."
At my hotel room, my friend came over and asked to use the phone. I said "Certainly." He said "Do I need to dial 9?" I say "Yeah. Especially if it's in the number. You can try four and five back to back real quick."
The thing about tennis is: no matter how much I play, I'll never be as good as a wall. I played a wall once. They're fucking relentless.
An escalator can never break: it can only become stairs. You would never see an "Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order" sign, just "Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience."
Here's a novelty: Find of the Week really IS the find of the week.
Like this
via the links of Left Blank.
*****
I LIKE AMERICANS
Ernest Miller Hemingway
By A Foreigner
I like Americans.
They are so unlike Canadians.
They do not take their policemen seriously.
They come to Montreal to drink.
Not to criticize.
They claim they won the war.
But they know at heart that they didn't.
They have such respect for Englishmen.
They like to live abroad.
They do not brag about how they take baths.
But they take them.
Their teeth are so good.
And they wear B.V.D.'s all the year round.
I wish they didn't brag about it.
They have the second best navy in the world.
But they never mention it.
They would like to have Henry Ford for president.
But they will not elect him.
They saw through Bill Bryan.
They have gotten tired of Billy Sunday.
Their men have such funny hair cuts.
They are hard to suck in on Europe.
They have been there once.
They produced Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff.
And Jiggs.
They do not hang lady murderers.
They put them in vaudeville.
They read the Saturday Evening Post
And believe in Santa Claus.
When they make money
They make a lot of money.
They are fine people.
zaterdag, april 02, 2005
POPE ON THE ROPES
POPE POPE POPE POPE POPE POPE POPE.
And now, live from the Vatican...it's the Papal Update
A POPE UPDATE...heart still ticking but the pope is on the ropes. Slipping in and out of consciousness. Papa gravissimo. He's taken a hard right from death and he's on the ropes ladies and gennelmen.
Meanwhile, lost in all the hoopla, Terri's fight is over.
Goodnight, funny lady.
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