Working Class Hero
John Lennon

As soon as your born they make you feel small,
By giving you no time instead of it all,
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool,
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years,
Then they expect you to pick a career,
When you can't really function you're so full of fear,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV,
And you think you're so clever and classless and free,
But you're still fucking peasents as far as I can see,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
There's room at the top they are telling you still,
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill,
If you want to be like the folks on the hill,
A working class hero is something to be.
A working class hero is something to be.
If you want to be a hero well just follow me,
If you want to be a hero well just follow me.

She Proved Me Wrong

No!
There are not little birds that sing,
they are begging.
They want a piece of that
Democracy.

No!
She tells me, don't fold
your clothes in a heap and
piss in the open space,

I need you,

she repeats, only this time louder
as though it were a different language
and saying it louder was the translator.

No!
I can't take it any more!
(or maybe just a little on the side.)
Gimme what I don't know that I want!

No!
They say, "you can't do that."
No?
Why not?

Because you will end up in prison,
that's why.
You might end up in prison with AIDs too.
You might end up in prison
Yeah and when you do, you dunno what
is possible.

No!
The mother says, this guy is no good,
I won't let my daughter...
yet
until
you give me some yourself.

No!
these are just the photographs,
not the memories.
I remember it better than being.

No,
she said it was fun.
And it was.

No,
not really.

The Line

It wasn't always a clever line.

How many hours did I polish it with beer?
How many faces did I come across
before I landed, there, before you
ready to recite?

Oh yeah, this was a line
I'd been working on for weeks
in front of mirrors, on the subway,
lying on the beach.

So when I arrived, blown in by direction
and two feet in front of another,
precariously, I arrived knowing
every line back and forth, upside down,
to and fro, left to right and right to left.

And you were already painted,
ready for war, blood on the lips,
expectant, one leg crossed over another,
toying with the straw in your drink.

I've got a line alright. Clever it is.

Just wait and see.

Weightlifting



Let me try to bench press 100 kilos
of hope.

I fucked it all up somehow.

Hope was too fucking heavy.

And so were all the people relying on it
who caused me grief because hope was
on the corner of Nowhere and Never
and carrying them all
on my back was heavier
than I'd imagined

Let me try a dumbell curl of 35 kilos
And while I strain, snakes come out of my hair,
blood bursts through my eyes, all
the little symbols
that I'm doing something wrong.

When I lift weights like love, the
knees buckle; I'm doing squats
of love
and the sweat is pouring out of me
and the strain is all but unbearable.
That could be 300 kilos
but that's too much woman to love.

Let me try a set of rowing 50 kilos
to my chest and back to my ankles and back
to my chest,
somehow not the same as sex,
weightless as it is.

The weight of the world is a feather.

The world is too big to contemplate,
not any heavier than an atom -
Adam, atom, too big to contemplate
in world as light and weighty as ours.

Let me try to lift peoples' spirits,
100 kilos at a time.
I max out, turn in, shut the eyes,
grimace as though I were really trying.

Yet nothing moves and maybe Sisyphus
is to be admired because he got
the rock rolling anyway.

The spirits are heavy.
Keeping them up is a struggle
no matter how many weights
I lifted on the way up.

*****

also want to take this opportunity to asking anyone reading this to have a look at another blog I find interesting:

Last Call.

Bits and bobs, baby. Bits and bobs.

4th Anniversary



Lorca - Part One of A Poet in New York - Dawn

Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because morning and hope are impossible there:
sometimes the furious swarming coins
penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.

Those that go out early know in their bones
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.

The light is buried under chains and noises
in an impudent challenge to rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.

*****

Seen Better Days



Charles Bukowski - Young In New Orleans

starving there, sitting around the bars,
and at night walking the streets for hours,
the moonlight always seemed fake
to me, mabye it was,
and in the French Quarter I watched
the horses and buggies going by,
everybody sitting high in the open
carriages, the black driver, and in
back the man and the woman,
usually young and always white.
and I was always white.
and hardly charmed by the
world.
New Orleans was a place to
hide.
I could piss away my life,
unmolested.
except for the rats.
the rats in my small dark room
very much resented sharing it
with me.
they were large and fearless
and stared at me with eyes
that spoke
an unblinking
death.
women were beyond me.
they saw something
depraved.
there was one waitress
a little older than
I, she rather smiled,
lingered when she
brought my
coffee.
that was plenty for
me, that was
enough.
there was something about
that city, though:
it didn't let me feel guilty
that I had no feeling for the
things so many others
needed.
it let me alone.
sitting up in my bed
the lights out,
hearing the outside
sounds,
lifting my cheap
bottle of wine,
letting the warmth of
the grape
enter
]me
as I heard the rats
moving about the
room,
I preferred them
to
humans.
being lost,
being crazy mabye
is not so bad
if you can be
that way:
undisturbed.
New Orleans gave me
that.
nobody ever called
my name.
no telephone,
no car,
no job,
no anything.
me and the
rats
and my youth,
one time,
that time
I knew
even through the
nothingness,
it was a
celebration
of something not to
do
but only
know.



George Gordon, Lord Byron - The Destruction Of Sennacherib

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd,
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Kaboom!



FILL FULL

What we know of ourselves are fitted
weekly in spouses and children and jobs
meakly reflecting.

What I am, I can fit on a thumbprint.
The Government can tell you that

and almost everything about me
but who I am

wihout being fitted properly
into the scheme of things
or in the realm of knowing
THIS is the way to go,
not THAT.

*****

And when I relax, I tire like a cat.
If they let me out of the box
I will run fastest
for the cars.

*****

No wait, those are dogs.

*****

Lately, they begin to appreciate me.
They comment on my clothes:
"oh what a nice rack you have"
or,
"great ass, think you'll bring some home
for me?"

Yeah, I say.

There's a big ass in your face
and it's called America.
Come and fuck it.

*****

So when it's down to the chips
and the dreams are counting
down to reality; one two tick tock
I will be.

There for this little, tiny
shadow
when you and I
were playing for all the marbles.

*****

Kaboom!

Steve Bell

KATRINA

Let me capitalise on the suffering
of other people who, well, suffer.

Hey!
I've got two gallons of water,
I've got a splendid set of ribs,
I've got a pair of balls,
lips.

Everything that desperation needs.

Let me remember for you
in case you forget
I am here to help you.

Let me capitalise on the suffering
of other people who, well, suffer.

Let me stop you. Don't leave.
Don't even think about it.
I've already locked all the doors
and all the windows.
You stay what you are
and don't move.

Slowly, day by day,
you remember
I'm in charge.

Let me capitalise on the suffering
of other people who, well, suffer.

I like you people. You are
my story,
my living,
my bread on the table
to feed the mouths of my children
and fund their educations so they can
grow up just like me;

hungry for your suffering,
thirsty for your reality,
ready, always ready,
to report on your misery.

Where's The Fats?



Of all the New Orleans stories, this one strikes me most: Fats Domino is missing.

Perspective: It's ironic in a way: how many civilians killed by terrorism from 2000-present versus how many civilians killed by mother nature from 2000-present.

Whose god should the world be fighting?

Hopefully, ole Fats is just off on a bender somewhere and out of harms way.

The City of New Orleans
by Steve Goodman

Riding on the City of New Orleans,
Illinois Central Monday morning rail
Fifteen cars and fifteen restless riders,
Three conductors and twenty-five sacks of mail.
All along the southbound odyssey
The train pulls out at Kankakee
Rolls along past houses, farms and fields.
Passin' trains that have no names,
Freight yards full of old black men
And the graveyards of the rusted automobiles.

CHORUS:
Good morning America how are you?
Don't you know me I'm your native son,
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.

Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car.
Penny a point ain't no one keepin' score.
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle
Feel the wheels rumblin' 'neath the floor.
And the sons of pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel.
Mothers with their babes asleep,
Are rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.

CHORUS

Nighttime on The City of New Orleans,
Changing cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Half way home, we'll be there by morning
Through the Mississippi darkness
Rolling down to the sea.
And all the towns and people seem
To fade into a bad dream
And the steel rails still ain't heard the news.
The conductor sings his song again,
The passengers will please refrain
This train's got the disappearing railroad blues.

Good night, America, how are you?
Don't you know me I'm your native son,
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.

Why Not The Raybeats?


(image via The Raybeats

Dirt Cheap: Poem For Free:



The Argument For Love

you get wet.
you get a boner.
you fuck,
you blow,
you reverse and go forward at once,
you sit back sweaty
and wonder who the fuck is sitting next to you.

*****

we love heartbreak.

we break each others' hearts, chipping
away at that sculpture of the perfect
mate.

we love to argue.

we like throwing things against the wall
to emphasise our points.
we revel in dressing up wrong
to look like right, like they were twins
you could accidentally mix up.

*****

I love you, I love you not.

I am not steady on my feet.

Your day is not mine and mine
is not yours.
Couples
(look, that blip there, that's me...)
are only about couples
when there's a common enemy.

*****

They sing songs into each others' mouths.

They touch each other knowingly,
they fuck like yesterday were tomorrow,
they sing to themselves but think
of the other.
They feel better, they live longer,
they die happier, they might even
have kids.

They will fast-forward their lives
later because that's how it happens:
one minute here, twenty years
later it's the feet that are killing you.

*****

She waits,
because I will arrive.
I arrive because she waits.

Wha's This? More Feckin' Poetry?



"The intelligent man who is proud
of his intelligence is like a
condemned man who is proud of his
large cell."
— Simone Weil, "Human Personality"


In prison, you write words in your mind
and live lives in your mind
and travel only in dreams
but you get good biscuits with sausage gravy
on Sunday mornings
and use of the weight room
one hour and fourty five minutes per day.

You mete out your hours like
they were the shavings of wittling,
and there is no extrospection.
The heart sings silently and rarily.

In prison, you live outside.
Outside of society, outside
of reality and yet inside
the outside looks so inviting.

It is as if you were dead.

If you've ever wondered what the world
will do when you are finally gone
all you need to do
is listen to those bars close shut
in front of you.

In prison, you live the lie of being alive.
You listen to the breathing in the bunk
above you, and realise that breathing
is just a symptom of living,
not proof itself.

Blast Off!



Well it's take awhile but Hunter S Thompson has finally left the building.

And for a kick, the first chapter from The Rum Diaries.

Wonder if they'll ever name an airport after him like Ronald Reagan, John Lennon, Louis Armstrong, etc.

Hoi, Nederlands!



Spinvis -Smalfilm

Ik ben een vrouw van veertig met een sigaret
ik heb een buitenaardse stof in mijn bloed
ik werd verleden jaar ontvoerd door een ruimteschip
en sindsdien gaat het met mij niet zo goed
ik weet wel waar ze wonen
want je kunt het zien als je de letters van hun naam omdraait
de waarheid is een raadsel
en dat gaat als volgt
het is een goeie vriend maar altijd te laat.

Ik heb een eigen flat
ik heb de radio aan
het is alweer woensdag
ik heb een Golf GTI
een tijdje terug reed ik een fietser dood
maar gelukkig heeft geen mens me gezien
het komt maar zelden voor dat ik een zin afmaak
maar je maakt me echt niks wijs
het noodlot is een raadsel
en dat gaat als volgt
het kost je niks en toch altijd prijs.

Als ik uitga ben ik fotograaf
en ik ben schrijver als ik vrienden bezoek
op het ogenblik zit ik heel even zonder werk
maar binnenkort begin ik aan mijn eerste boek
in de spiegel neem ik soms alvast de pose aan
voor de foto op de achterkant
dromen zijn een raadsel
en dat gaat als volgt
het smelt in je hoofd en niet in je hand.

Ik ben een monoliet
ik ben de wetenschap
ik ben een grote man van 50 jaar
vandaag knipte ik een muis in twee
en die naaide ik toen mooi weer aan elkaar
maar soms vanuit een hoek kijken mij dingen aan
vanuit de schaduw van de kathedraal
alles is een raadsel
maar ik weet nog niet in wat voor vorm
en in welke taal.

Ik ben al heel erg oud
en ik mis mijn vrouw
en mijn oude handen trillen heel de dag
beneden kun je kaarten bij de automaat
alhoewel dat van mijn dochter niet mag
dan zeggen ze dat ik zo goed de kaarten schud
en dan lach ik elke keer maar weer mee
ik ken een raadsel over eenzaamheid
het gaat als volgt
wat doet pijn en telt voor twee.

Poems, Poems, Poems. Won't These People Ever Shut Up?



Why Smoking Is Addictive And Travel Is Cheap

By the powers invested in me
for offers that can't be refused,
here is the cigarette and the blindfold:
The cost of your destination is one lifetime.
Please pay in advance.

A little word with your travel agent
will speed things up to the point of no return
from your end of the bargain,
you are to speak fiction
and make truth seem uninteresting at best.

Take a walk to the urinals of never;
bladders emptied at bargain prices.
Keep your chin up for the mug shots,
look danger in the lungs,
check out the interior pipes
and return them when the weekend is over.

You can't smoke just one,
time is too short.

*****

Wireless Mothers of Jesus

In other words, they only listen if
they've finished talking,
authoritative claptraps, saliva lips,
causing droopy eyes,
changing channels make believe
if they're
outside all day in cafes, sitting
sculpted into leather beneath
the sun, the old Madonnas
on cellphones, cellulite sweating
into the vast universe of important rules
they ignore in all their chatter.

*****

The Fate of Bad Ideas

They populate: conventional avenues of thought
get too crowded, the overflow is squeezed
onto side streets and dead ends.

Sometimes they fade into an irrecognizable
blur of too many faces
shouting each other down in smoky rooms
or sterile television studios.

They make babies out of broken homes,
malnourished and ideas unwashed of bromides,
they grow up to be messianic on occasion
or otherwise leave alot of corpses in their wake.

A few become ad campaigns:
that's how beers and cars
got to meet so many telegenic women
and left the rest of us standing on the sidelines.

*****

Album Du Jour



And for those who are missing it:

The Brecon Jazz Festival

More Poems That Won't Get Fed To The Publishing Dogs

ACCIDENTAL 2005

I.

Can you imagine if we walked out of the womb?
If we squared the shoulders or fixed the make up
shook the hair, straightened the lapels,
and the spotlight was on us and the womb.
Can you imagine the angst already,
is the spotlight on the womb or me?

Imagine every promise you've made,
and imagine diamonds and coal.

When I wake up in the middle of the night,
the first thing I do is look at the clock.
Should I sleep more? Should I get up?
Am I banging on the womb to get out or stay in?

Imagine every promise made to you.
On the fingertips and the eyelids,
or unconvincingly with a shove in the ribs.

When they say the kid has promise,
they mean his past is irrelevant.
There are many ways to chose to forget
but if I enumerate them, I haven't forgotten.

I want the promise of a better world
and I want it in the last 10 seconds
counting down to what?

The new, that's what.

The new me, the new you, the new world.
That's what they gave the new kid,
we deserve as much.

II.

Later on, we pass out cigars.
We pass out cigars because they symbolise success.
Either a baby or another year done,
we won't know the outcome.

If you measure
you fail
and you will measure again
and fail again
because the measuring
is the failure.

The years that pass are years
you are still alive.
Think about the people who die
on New Year's Eve
without ever knowing the outcome.

*****

MADRID

I.

The gypsies are like humidity,
clinging to the skin, dripping need.

"Please help feed my baby," she mumbles,
rocking cloth in her arms.

A man steps forward.

"That's no baby!" he exclaims,
ripping the cloth from her arms
to expose a doll.

II.

After two months of dirt, my shoes
will be shined in a park in Madrid
because a man snapped up with a towel
and offered.

Two months of a half dozen towns'
dirt clogging my stride and time
now, for the cracked teeth smiling
at me si señor,
to shine the shoes.

He turned dirt to shine, muck
to a sublime shade and spat
and shook his skinny elbows
back and forth.

*****

That's all for now kids. More te folly in the coming days and years.

No Woman No Cry



Wow kids, you git to watch a drunken boat poem created right here on the page...


WHY I DON' WANNA BE A WOMAN

I.

Alotta blood.
The womb is mysterious but bloody.

II.

Whose gonna kill the snakes?

III.

Psychopoetics of Metaphor: Freudian Aesthetics and
Rimbaud.

Let's unravel cautiously.

Otherwise the scabs might crack.

IV.

I don' wanna be a woman because I'm a man,
you hear what a man I yam?
I can shriek, I can bellow,
I can howl.
I can wear a tie and no one will think I'm a dyke.

V.

She told me, shetoldmeshetoldme LOOK
I'm a woman!
I've got tits!

VI.

"What's good about women?" some guy spits
out on the corner of 1st and 2nd.
Peel him open.
He's had a bad ride.

VII.

Sex v. Making Love, et al.

VIII.

I hate it when she says she loves me
because I know she doesn't.
The statute has already run out.

But give us a breather,
that string instrument still,
shhhh.

She loves me, she loves me not.

IX.

The difference it makes,
warm, bold, hot,
cold or indifferent,
that's alot
to chew,
I'd rather not.

X.

Love a woman, hug a woman,
let her know
what a woman
she is,
but don't
let go
to never wanting to be a woman.

Bush Reveals The Earth Is Flat



(image via Parapolitics

In an interview at the White House on Monday with a group of Texas newspaper reporters, President Jesus Bush appeared to endorse the old and seemingly disproven theory that the world is flat.

Recalling his days as Texas governor, Bush said in the interview, according to a transcript, "I felt that even though hundreds of years of history would show otherwise, we should be letting our children know that in reality, the world is flat." Asked again by a reporter whether he believed that both sides in the debate between the earth being flat and not being flat were right, Bush replied that he did, "and just because school textbooks debunk the world is flat theory doesn't mean it can't be true."

Bush was pressed as to whether he accepted the view that the flatness of the earth was revealed to him in a secret conversation with God, he did not directly answer. "I think that part of education is to expose people to different schools of thought," he said, adding that it's quite possible that terrorist-loving Democrats had created the whole round earth theory simply to discredit God and to keep people from getting to scared of falling off the edge of the earth.

On Tuesday, the president's conservative Christian supporters and the leading institute advancing flat earth theories embraced Bush's comments, while scientists and advocates of the round earth theory disparaged them. At the White House, where the flatness of earth has been discussed in a weekly Bible study group, Bush's science adviser, John Marburger III, sought to play down the president's remarks as common sense and old news.

Marburger said in a telephone interview that "although every picture taken of earth from space makes the earth appear circular, the truth of the matter is, this has always been little more than a Democrat photoshopping conspiracy" and "if Democrats believe the earth is round, the earth must logically be flat because the Democrats are wrong about everything." Marburger also said that Bush's remarks should be interpreted to mean that the president believes that the fact of the earth being flat, not round, should be discussed as part of the "core curriculum" in science classes.

Bush also noted later in a speech to demonstrate the truth of the earth being flat that "A quarter is a flat object. However, if you spin a quarter on its axis, the shadow made by a light overhead is in the shape of a circle.

Suppose that the earth is flat, as per our initial hypothesis. Now suppose that the earth is in constant motion. In fact, it is widely acknowledged that the earth is spinning at the tremendous rate of approximately 1000 miles per hour. Given these assmptions, what shape shadow should the earth cast upon the moon during a lunar eclipse? Clearly, the earth should cast a circular shadow!

Yo Tengo Tantos Hermanos...



Yo tengo tantos hermanos que no los puedo contar.

En el valle, la montaña, en la pampa y en el mar.

Cada cual con sus trabajos, con sus suñeos, cada cual

Con la ezperánza adelante, con los recuerdos detrás.

Yo tengo tantos hermanos que no los puedo contar.



Gente de mano calliente por eso de la amistad.

Con un lloro pa llorarlo, con un rezo pa rezar.

Con un horizonte abierto que siempre está más allá.

Y esa fuerza pa buscarlo con tesón y voluntad.

Cuando parece más cerca es cuando se aleja más.

Yo tengo tantos hermanos que no los puedo contar.


Y así seguimos andando, curtidos de soledad.

Nos perdemos por el mundo, nos volvemos á encontrar.

Y así nos reconocemos, por el lejano mirar,

Por la copla que mordemos, semilla de immensidad.

Y así seguimos andandos, curtidos de soledad.

Y en nosotros nuestros muertos pa que nadie quede atrás.

Yo tengo tantos hermanos que no los puedo contar,

Y una novia muy hermosa que se llama Libertad !

Fuck Harry Potter

It isn't possible to hold back the bile any longer. Fuck Harry Potter. There. It's been said, and not just by the devoted Harry Potter Haters in this elusive club of faceless iconoclasts gathered in the book burning salons of shopping malls throughout the world.

Apparently, he dies. Fans are "really sad".

Funny, the world is disintegrating around them into chaos, anarchy and death and somehow there are still people left mourning over the death of a fictitious children's book character.

Is it any wonder there are people in the world who hate us and want to destroy our civilisation? It isn't the sham of democracy and freedom nor the chance to stand in line for a Super Sized Super Meal in some fast food flesh fest that drives people to go on crazed suicide bombing rampages and utter catchy phrases like you love life, we love death, it's Harry Potter and the legions of idiots who would feel "really sad" about the death of a fictitious character and live in some super-Idiot escapist world where the a fictitious muppet rules Holland.

Get these kids and their adult-pretender wanna-be sick fantasy world intellects off the rubbish and on to something edifying, like:




And if not, note that in the never-ending search for intelligent life amongst the lemmings clammering for the latest new edition of Harry Potter, you might just come across the kind of anger and hatred for western civilisation that you normally only find amoung suicide bombers:

Harry Potter and the Department of Social Security via the refreshing just ram it...

On the other hand, there is the compelling argument that if The Pope doesn't like it it must be something good for you.

Nevertheless, join us in asking the eternal question that time forgot:

Is Harry Potter Gay?

New Tattoo

I've finally decided on the image for the new tat, perfectly indicative of the brave new world we live in.



It's either that, or the other icon of western civilisation:



Cast your vote. The fate of the western world relies upon it.

Chirac-Fed Terrorists Pay Back London For Olympic Victory and Bad Cuisine



One day after Paris lost their 2012 Olympic bid, Chirac-fed terrorists claimed victory of a different sort, London suffered a series of retaliatory bombings during morning rush hour.

"One cannot trust people whose cuisine is so bad," Chirac noted just a few days before of the English. "They will pay for winning the Olympic bid and they will pay for their rotten fish and chips."

Although Al Qaeda have claimed to be behind the attacks, several sources within the French government have indicated that the attacks were masterminded by Mr Chirac who was reportedly incensed that London was awarded the 2012 Olympic Games rather than Paris and ordered French sous chefs to hide explosives in freshly imported packages of common pan-gallic chauvinism, cleverly disguised as fish and chips newspaper wrap, and place them throughout the London Underground and a few double decker buses.

Chirac officially denied any hand in the attacks and joined the other Group of Eight leaders in condemning them.

"Today we are all les Anglo-Saxons, we are all mass consumers of fish and chips, we are all fat, lager chugging yobs...", Chirac reportedly announced in empathy.

Off To The Scottish Wilderness



"I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way." -- Carl Sandburg, Incidentals (1907)

Push The Button



*****

Is Coldplay The New Jesus?

"Coldplay is the new creamy soothing balm you rub all over your chafed and itchy thighs after a long day working in the hot sun hauling scrub brush to the weed pile in the backyard while the goddamn kids think it's funny to throw mudballs at the windows and the creepy meth-lab neighbors peek at you through their dark stained Levolor blinds as you imagine them storing up jars of pickled squirrel brains for the winter."

*****

Roosevelt, Stalin and the Magical Lemon Tree

"The meeting was cordial and consisted primarily of Stalin’s welcoming the President to Yalta and making sure that he was comfortably settled. Since it was about cocktail hour, the President repeated a ritual he regularly performed at the White House: He made a pitcher of dry martinis. As he passed a glass to Stalin, he said apologetically that a good martini really should have a twist of lemon.

The President made Stalin a martini, apologizing for the lack of a twist. The next morning I was astonished to see a full-grown lemon tree that Stalin had had flown in.

At six o’clock the following morning, when I came down to the main entrance hall, I was astonished to find, just outside the door to the anteroom, a huge lemon tree—I counted some 200 pieces of fruit on it—which Stalin had ordered flown in from his native Georgia so the President could serve his martinis with a twist."

*****



Hollywood Bail Bonds: Any Jail, Any Court, Any Time

via The Black Table

*****

The Godzilla Club:

"The idea of a band nowadays is 5 pretty boys, one with a tattoo, one with a shaved head, and on and on. What the fuck is that? I mean, I like Britney Spears, I think she's pretty, but I'm not from the Mickey Mouse Club-I'm from the Godzilla Club!" -- Ozzy Osbourne

*****

So Much For Foreplay



Jesus Juice

Mixing wine and cola in a can:

Jesus Juice.

via Flabber

*****

For those of you in the unofficial Champions League Crowd of Hipsters, The Dudek Dance is going to be the club craze in Italy this summer. So "they" say anyway.

*****

In case you were still wondering: How Pregnancy Happens. via Flabber, again, tysend tak, mille grazie.

*****

Hey Kids, Go Out And Buy It!

Bitches Brew.

The wonderful thing is...no words.

Feliz Cumpleanos, Frederico!



GACELA DEL AMOR DESESPERADO

La noche no quiere venir
. para que tú no vengas,
ni vo pueda ir.

Pero vo iré,
aunque un sol de alacranes me coma la sien.
Pero tú vendrás
con la lengua quemada por la lluvia de sal.

El día no quiere venir
para que tú no vengas,
ni vo pueda ir.
Pero vo iré
entregan do a los sapos mi mordido clavel.
Pero tú vendrás
por las turbias cloacas de la oscuridad.

Ni la noche ni el día quieren venir
para que por ti muera
v tú mueras por mí.

El poeta dice la verdad.

Quiero llorar mi pena y te lo digo
para que tú me quieras y me llores
en un anochecer de ruiseñores,
con un puñal, con besos y contigo.

Quiero matar al único testigo
para el asesinato de mis flores
y convertir mi llanto y mis sudores
en eterno montón de duro trigo.

Que no se acabe nunca la madeja
del te quiero me quieres, siempre ardida
con decrépito sol y luna vieja.

Que lo que no me des y no te pida
será para la muerte, que no deja
ni sombra por la carne estremecida.

gracias a: Poemas

*****

LA COGIDA Y LA MUERTE

A las cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
Un niño trajo la blanca sábana
a las cinco de la tarde.
Una espuerta de cal ya prevenida
a las dnco de la tarde.
Lo demás era muerte y sólo muerte
a las dnco de la tarde.

El viento se llevó los algodones
a las cinco de la tarde.
Y el óxido sembró cristal y níquel
a las cinco de la tarde.
Ya luchan la paloma y el leopardo
a las cinco de la tarde.
Y un muslo con un asta desolada
a las cinco de la tarde.
Comenzaron los sones del bordón
a las cinco de la tarde.
Las campanas de arsénico y el humo
a las cinco de la tarde.
En las esquinas grupos de silencio
a las cinco de la tarde.
¡Y el toro solo corazón arriba!
a las cinco de la tarde.
Cuando el sudor de nieve fue llegando
a las cinco de la tarde,
cuando la plaza se cubrió de yodo
a las cinco de la tarde,
la muerte puso huevos en la herida
a las cinco de la tarde:
A las cinco de la tarde.
A las cinco en punto de la tarde.

Un ataúd con ruedas es la cama
a las cinco de la tarde.
Huesos y flautas suenan en su oído
a las cinco de la tarde.
El toro ya mugía por su frente
a las cinco de la tarde.
El cuarto se irisaba de agonía
a las cinco de la tarde.
A lo lejos ya viene la gangrena
a las cinco de la tarde.
Trompa de lirio por las verdes ingles
a las cinco de la tarde.
Las heridas quemaban como soles
a las cinco de la tarde.
y el gentío rompía las ventanas
a las cinco de la tarde.
A las cinco de la tarde.
¡ Ay qué terribles cinco de la tarde!
¡Eran las cinco en todos los relojes!
¡Eran las cinco en sombra de la tarde!

gracias a: Federico Garcia Lorca pagina

You are George Gordon, Lord Byron! The
prototypical bad boy, you'll sleep with
anything that can give consent and maybe even a
few things that can't or won't. Your ethics
could use some work (nine year old girls?), but
outside of the sex question, you're a grand
partier and the bipolar, shady hero of your own
story. The wittiest of the Romantics, you're
mad, bad and dangerous to know. Scandalous!


Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)?
brought to you by Quizilla

Happy Birthday Bob

In case you needed some ground rules, here is How To Celebrate Bob Dylan's Birthday.

And if you were curious, here is what was going on the day little Bob was born.

Naturally you can imagine the Hibbing Daily Tribune has something to say about the subject, where Bob Dylan's annual birthday bash starts Friday and runs through Tuesday.

Although a few days late, The Bob Dylan Show, a tribute band from Australia will perform with it’s all-star band in celebration of Bob Dylan’s Birthday at The Cat And Fiddle Hotel in Balmain on Saturday, May 28. Just enough time to fly down...

NPR's interview last year with Bob Dylan.

For the real freaks, there's the Bob Dylan Pool which tries to predict the songs he will play in concert. Pity there isn't a pool for predicting what percentage of the songs he sings will be coherent.

And of course, there's the Bob Dylan Coffee Mug Set, as if one coffee mug just wouldn't be enough...

If you hadn't heard about it: “Gilligan’s Island,” starring cartoon versions of Bob Dylan as Gilligan.

A collection of jokes he made on stage followed quickly by Bob Dylan quotes

None of which mentions Tangled Up In Jews.

We could do this all night kids, but enough's enough.

IF YOU SEE HER, SAY HELLO

If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier
She left here last early spring, is livin' there, I hear
Say for me that I'm all right though things get kind of slow
She might think that I've forgotten her, don't tell her it isn't so.

We had a falling-out, like lovers often will
And to think of how she left that night, it still brings me a chill
And though our separation, it pierced me to the heart
She still lives inside of me, we've never been apart.

If you get close to her, kiss her once for me
I always have respected her for busting out and gettin' free
Oh, whatever makes her happy, I won't stand in the way
Though the bitter taste still lingers on from the night I tried to make her stay.

I see a lot of people as I make the rounds
And I hear her name here and there as I go from town to town
And I've never gotten used to it, I've just learned to turn it off
Either I'm too sensitive or else I'm gettin' soft.

Sundown, yellow moon, I replay the past
I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast
If she's passin' back this way, I'm not that hard to find
Tell her she can look me up if she's got the time.

Inglan is a Bitch
Linton Kwesi Johnson

w'en mi jus' come to Landan toun
mi use to work pan di andahgroun
but workin' pan di andahgroun
y'u don't get fi know your way aroun'
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi get a lickle jab in a big 'otell
an' awftah a while, mi woz doin' quite well
dem staat mi aaf as a dish-washah
but w'en mi tek a stack, mi noh tun clack-watchah!

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
noh baddah try fi hide fram it

w'en dem gi' you di lickle wage packit
fus dem rab it wid dem big tax rackit
y'u haffi struggle fi mek en's meet
an' w'en y'u goh a y'u bed y'u jus' cant sleep

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch fi true
a noh lie mi a tell, a true

mi use to work dig ditch w'en it cowl noh bitch
mi did strang like a mule, but, bwoy, mi did fool
den awftah a while mi jus' stap dhu ovahtime
den aftah a while mi jus' phu dung mi tool

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u haffi know how fi suvvive in it

well mi dhu day wok an' mid dhu nite wok
mi dhu clean wok an' mid dhu dutty wok
dem seh dat black man is very lazy
but it y'u si how mi wok y'u woulda sey mi crazy

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u bettah face up to it

dem have a lickle facktri up inna Brackly
inna disya facktri all dem dhu is pack crackry
fi di laas fifteen years dem get mi laybah
now awftah fiteen years mi fall out a fayvah

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi know dem have work, work in abundant
yet still, dem mek mi redundant
now, at fifty-five mi gettin' quite ol'
yet still, dem sen' mi fi goh draw dole

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch fi true

is whey wi a goh dhu 'bout it?

How Sweet It Is

The Modern Drunkard Magazine has an excellent article on the myth, madness and magic of Jackie Gleason:

"Picture it: It’s 1950 and you stroll into Toots. The first thing you take in is the circular bar, lushly appointed and wrapped around a spire of liquor stacked to a distant ceiling. In the deepest corner of the room a crowd roars with laughter and you naturally gravitate toward the source. First you pass through a sea of gawking tourists willing to pay premium drink prices to get a glimpse of their idols, then a moat of newspaper columnists, their ears cocked for material for tomorrow’s column, then finally the inner circle itself—Frank Sinatra drinks Jack Daniels with known mafia kingpins, Humphrey Bogart nurses a double whiskey and a triple hangover, Joe DiMaggio pours champagne for his wife Marilyn Monroe. Milton Berle, Charlie Chaplin, Bob Hope, Walter Winchell and Mickey Mantle stand enthralled, waiting for the next hilarious word. At the very center of this thick ring of American heroes stands the then relatively unknown Jackie Gleason, holding court, doing what he does best—working the room for laughs. He makes light of himself, he makes greater light of those around him; mining huge egos for uproarious laughter. And they take it, daring not to show weakness, because if Jackie smells blood he goes in like a shark.


via A Large Regular

*****Music On The Mind******

Is Matisyahu the new king of hasidic reggae?

via Radio Active, the completely normal and boring New Yorker.

*****

When the President Talks To God, via The Scottish Patient.

*****

As always, great new live video and audio clips via 3 voor 12

*****

Planxty

by Erik Satie

Drunk in a cafe, some French coastal village
you wouldn't know. Studying
the mirror, all bubbled
and discolored, that hangs over the bar:

"I like it there's no piano here.
Pianos: just furniture, really.
The music of an open wallet,
my friend, obbligato of popping corks . . . ."

Signaling with consummate grace
for another bottle, seen only
by the proper waiter,
then tightening his tie suddenly:

"Did you know that Herr Beethoven,
for his majestic final symphony,
earned the equivalent of sixty
of your American dollars?"

A smile that could not possibly
be transcribed: "Although
my information is incorrect,
I do not vouch for it."

*****MISCELLANY

Don't look now but it looks like The Chimps Are Running Kansas - original link via Search Blog

*****

How To Eat At The Dollar Store:

"Your edible meat choices at the dollar store pretty much come down to tuna, tuna and tuna. Sure, there are other options, but they consist of meat whose origin, both with regards to location on the planet and on the animal itself, is questionable. Besides the aforementioned corned beef hash, other meat-like products that I did not put in my basket included Vienna sausages, off-brand chili and turkey SPAM.

I did, however, throw some Dinty Moore Chicken Stew in the basket. When I look back on it, I have no idea why. Maybe because it was a brand name. Maybe it was because I've never seen Chicken Stew before. All I know is that I'm too scared to eat it. Knowing how crummy the meat is in a homemade beef stew (it's supposed to be tough, cheap meat that softens up over the hours it's simmering in the stew), I can't imagine what kind of chicken meat is of such low quality that it only is suitable for canned stew. I just stare at the can periodically, wondering what kind of unpleasantness lurks just under that lid."

******

Unintentionally sexual comic book covers via The Best Page In The Universe.

*****

All through life you can go without ever realising there are two types of shoes in the world:

Fuck-Me Shoes and Fuck-You Shoes.

So dress carefully.

Dylan

Desolation Row

They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As the Lady and I look out tonight
>From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong To Me I Believe"
And someone says, "You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave."
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have Mercy On His Soul"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
>From Desolation Row

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outta Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
>From Desolation Row

-- Bob Dylan

Tony Charles Lynton Blair: White House Poodle or Third Term Wonder?

The son of a barrister has done it again.

They say it is historic third term - historic in that only 22% of those eligible to vote backed Labour - the lowest figure they have received at any post-war election apart from 1983 when the figure was 20.6%.

Another rerun of the Tony Blair Witch Project.

They say he limped away with victory and a bloodied nose on Iraq as well.

Cut down to poodle-size.

Even the Guardian thinks he was cut down to size:

"As the results came in last night it became compellingly clear that enough voters were determined to switch from Labour to other parties - mainly to the Liberal Democrats in safe seats but also to the Tories in southern marginals - for Tony Blair's ascendancy to be brought spectacularly down to earth."

For those of you keeping score at home, here is the voter's scorecard.

FT says Blair's Hope of a Thumping Majority dashed:

"Mr Blair's frozen smile said much. Though a historic victory no Labour government has ever served three successive terms the prime minister's critics will argue with justification that he has lost the magician's touch that powered him to two previous landslides."

And not that it matters to much to some as he may decided to quit sooner than expected to let the other dullard take over.

Indeed, how long will he last?

According to Polly Toynbee, Tony Blair alone bears the blame:

"Tony Blair tried to persuade himself that the Iraq war was a chattering class obsession, but it was everywhere, even among those who usually pay scant attention to foreign policy. It became the symbol and the icon for any disappointment or grievance with the government over the last eight years. It all came down on Tony Blair's head."

Even the NYT got into the act, acknowledging that for Blair, victory was not so sweet this time.

And speaking of what they think in 'Merica, in case you wondered what King Karl Rove thinks of it all...he donned a red rosette and walked away.

Maybe he too realised that Labour is flaccid and empty-headed.

But it could have been worse.

What all this means, of course, that although he has stooped to crawling in a sewer he should never be allowed to rise from, Michael Howard's days are numbered.

Not only that but Shadow education secretary Tim Collins' defeat was a major blow for Howard.

Labour's Jacqui Smith won the majority in my area again although her voting record is rather dodgy.

And how did the REAL alternative perform?

Not too shabbily. They won they're biggest seat total in 76 years.

They heralded a new era.

They may even turn into a reality check.

In the end, after all the money spent, the days campaigning, the words wasted, It was nobody's triumph

Except for Dirty George Galloway, who won his street fight over Oona King

Here's the map in case you are curious about who did what where to whom.

And if you're looking for a bit of lit with your political jones, Maud Newton's there and here edition does it quick and brill.

*****

Other information of note having nothing to do with the UK's elections:

Thursday and Empire is quite a good read.

A long-overdue tribute to Screaming Lord Sutch formerly of the Official Monster Raving Loony Party.

Verse Daily

*****Going Out In Style*****

That's all for today kids. Now Go out and kill Americans or if you're too busy to bother, just go out and get a piece, Son.

And yes, you can:

Mommy Can I Go Out And Kill Tonight? - The Misfits.

Jaap Stijl Translates The Hits

This is a hydroponic collection of poems taking the titles of famous poems and ruining them with his own incandescent style of translation. It is a style that follows syllabolically but not thematically. A style to feed to wild dogs. A style to feed starving children with. A style that knows it's own limits but leaps wildly past them anyway and has the scar to prove it.

The Collection itself will eventually fold through apathy and forgivenonsense.

1. The Snowman Can:

(a translation from insurance bureaucratese to gibberish of Wallace Stevens'The Snowman:

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.


becomes:


One must build the snowman winter
through button eyes and mutton mouth
carrot noses that never run;

Brrr, this ain't no renaissance
it's ice age cold Tolstoy's even frozen,
they can't sell him on the open market

of the thinking man's snowman slowly dripping
and there goes another several years down the drain,
and not a plumber in sight,

So the land is the sound of
the snowman's cold cry
that is lost in the same dull dripping

For the buckets full, that slowly overflow,
with nothing snowmen who
duly noted their existence you never built.

****************

2. The Roadblock Has Spoken

This is a translation of The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost from the ancient new england hallmarkian to pub dirgese:

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20

becomes:

TWO days I stumbled drunken as a bum,
And sorry I ran out so quickly
and have not a drop more for myself
And shook the bottles searching no luck
so they were all useless to me now; 5

Then came the roadblock that stopped me there,
And having perhaps the better gun,
Because I thought I could aye blow it down;
Though I tried to reason with it
My chances were pretty much kaput, 10

But there was no reasoning with this
roadblock that stood there steadily.
Oh, I punched my fist in the deadly air!
Yet I knew it was done futily,
So I doubted I'd be back for lunch. 15

I shall be telling groaning pain
Somewhere out there in the favoured land:
A roadblock emerged for me, and I—
I knew the roadblock has spoken,
And that has made all the difference. 20


*******************

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

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

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.

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.

Terry Schiavo Still Not Dead And Doesn't Need Feeding Tube
Sainthood Not Far Down The Road

Despite the US Court of Appeals declining for the fifth time to intervene in the case, it appears that Terry Schiavo does not need a feeding tube to stay alive and that the iron will and prayers of the good Christians of America and Jesse Jackson, will suffice until saner, more compassionate minds and hearts prevail.

Although it has now been 13 days since her feeding tube was removed and over a week and a half since Congress failed to stick it back in, and whilst Schiavo was weak from lack of nutrition, according to all reports her organs were functioning Wednesday and she was still alive.

Less than two years ago, this same Terry Schiavo experienced a miracle after doctors were ordered to reinsert her feeding tube following legislative flurry and gubernatorial intervention on her behalf but the stakes are raised now and the longer she goes on living without her precious little tube, the more beatific she becomes.

A group called Family is so excited about her ability to live without her feeding tube that she is being considered as a doll of One of the Original Saints, the proceeds of which will go toward funding more Christian organisations that use their outraged morality as an excuse to interfere with the American political system.

*****

Meanwhile, in a crass display of the pecking order of Christianity, whilst America tries to starve Terry Schiavo to death with no feeding tube, The Pope was being fitted for his own nasal feeding tube.

Vatican officials were at a loss to explain why Terry Schiavo could continue living without her feeding tube but the mighty and omniscent Pope required a feeding tube to stay alive.

An anonymous source within the Schiavo family scoffed at the news, noting "Our precious little Terry can live without a feeding tube, why can't the Pope? What kind of weakling is he anyway?"

*****

While the Pope needs a feeding tube and Terry Schiavo doesn't, testimony in the Michael Jackson child-molestation trial continued on with a weighty presentation on the definition of cuddle.

Flight attendant Cynthia Bell took the stand to talk about what she observed between the singer and the accuser during a flight back from Miami on Jackson's private jet. Prosecutors asked Bell if she ever saw Jackson "cuddling" with the accuser, and she said she saw him put his arm around the boy while listening to music. When asked if she considered that cuddling, Bell said, "It depends on what your definition of cuddling is."

She did not comment on what the her definition of "child rape" or "kiddy porn" is.

*****

And finally, in a pique of irony, it is reported that whilst Terry Schiavo continues to live without her feeding tube and the Pope continues to live WITH his feeding tube, Andrew Toti, the man who saved President Bush Number One, died.

Toti whose many inventions included an automated chicken plucker and a pop-top beer can and who was credited with inventing the Mae West flotation device, could simply not be saved after suffering a fall a few months ago.

Thousand of sailors and airmen during World War II owed their lives to their trusty Mae West, including a young Navy pilot, Lt. j.g. George H. W. Bush. Shot down over the Pacific on Sept. 2, 1944, the future president managed to stay afloat until he was spotted by passing planes and then rescued by a submarine. "Please tell [your father] a grateful Navy man who benefited from his invention sends his best wishes," he said in a message to Mr. Toti's daughter at a ceremony in the inventor's honor last fall.

Crowds Hope For Easter Blessing From Terri Schiavo

Pilgrims and tourists headed to Terri Schiavo's hopsice on Easter Day in hopes that though ailing she would be strong enough, despite nine days without food or water, to appear to the crowds and deliver an Easter Sunday blessing.

For the first time since the Florida Supreme Court dismissed a request from the parents' attorney to have their daughter's feeding tube reinserted, both the Pope and Terri Schiavo were skipping Easter Sunday Mass at midmorning.

The Pope is skipping out because he continues his convalescence following two recent hospitalizations for breathing crises and Terri Schiavo can't make it because doctors do not expect Schiavo to live beyond next Friday so there are more pressing matters on her mind, like damn, I wish I had a Big Mac.

The Vatican said the legal fight to prolong the 41-year-old woman's life is drawing to an end and that that since surgeons inserted a tube in John Paul's throat to help him breathe, the pontiff has uttered only a few words in public.

Odd, isn't it? In Florida, the doctors removed tubes from a 41-year-old woman in a vegetative state in order to starve her to death, not to keep her alive, and in the Vatican, the doctors are inserted tubes to help the Pope breath and keep him alive.

Let that be a lesson kids. If you want decent medical attention, it's better to be the Pope.

The Icelandman Commeth

The Free Bobby lobby must be happy.

Chess legend Bobby Fisher is headed to Iceland after finally being freed from eight month's detention in Japan.

Iceland's Parliament voted to award citizenship to Mr. Fischer, a tribute to his epic cold war match in 1972 in Reykjavik against the Russian Boris Spassky.

He has tried to seek political asylum and to renounce his US citizenship, and announced plans to marry Miyoko Watai, head of the Japanese chess association, with whom he had been living in Japan.

Iceland is a close US ally, and as the only non-armed member of Nato depends on Wash ington for its defence. Reykjavik's actions won praise from Fischer's supporters. "Very few countries would have the courage to do what Iceland has done," said John Bosnitch, head of the Committee to Free Bobby Fischer.

Fisher was in detention for trying to leave the country using an invalid passport which was a initially a backhanded way for Japan to do America's bidding. The American government wanted him as Fischer is wanted in the U.S. for playing an exhibition match against Russian Boris Spassky in 1992 on the resort island of Sveti Stefanin. The match was held in violation of sanctions imposed on the former Yugoslavia. Of course, if it had been one of VP Cheney's war-for-profit buddies at Haliburton, violating sanctions would have been ignored but unlike war-for-profit cronies of Cheney, if convicted in the U.S., Fischer could face 10 years in prison and a $250,000 fine.

The granting of citizenship will only protect Fischer to an extent. Iceland, like Japan, has an extradition treaty with the U.S. and Washington could continue to seek his arrest.

Fischer was characteristically defiant as he arrived at the airport to be free of Japan.

"I won’t be free until I get out of Japan. This was not an arrest. It was a kidnapping cooked up by Bush and Koizumi," he said, referring to US President George Bush and Japanese prime minister Junichiro Koizumi.

Asked why he thought the US had pursued him for so long, Fischer replied, "It’s a Jew-controlled country," and launched into an anti-Semitic tirade.

As he walked towards the airport entrance, he turned, unzipped his trousers and acted as if he was going to urinate on the wall.

Fischer, meanwhile, says he will launch a $200m civil suit against the US government for wrongful imprisonment and emotional harm.

Of course, with the unnaturally expensive prices of Iceland, he might need every penny.

Fisher's legend is well documented by The Guardian's Stephen Moss:

"Many believe Fischer to be the greatest player of all time. Kasparov, who himself retired recently at the age of 41, had a higher official rating, but that may be misleading - there is an element of inflation in ratings over time. One thing is certain: a match between the two would be a media sensation. Even if they played now, it would be a multimillion-dollar event. How galling it must be for active grandmasters that the world is focused entirely on these two retired rogue bulls of the board. Fischer v Kasparov in Reykjavik some time next year? Why not? See you there!"

By the way, have a listen to Lazy Susan's song about Bobby Fisher. via One Good Move

America: Full of Holes
Dithering Congress Wrong on All Counts, More Die

Oh, the sweet irony.

Was it just last week that America's Congress was underscoring its own uselessness and flair for wasting tax dollars with its rubber pitbull impression of an "investigation" of baseball's steroid policy? And get this, they did it because they were concerned that a few teens on steroids had committed suicide.

Then this weekend, in a fit of misguided Christian Fundamentalism, they rush President Jesus Bush from his extended Easter holidays to sign their new bill into law all in order to "save the life" of ONE vegetative, brain-damaged woman.

And for what?

So they can stand with their collective thumbs up their collective arses on gun control after yet another American teen goes on a shooting rampage at school.

Where are the special legislative sessions and new bills passed now?

Where is President Jesus Bush's magical pen to pass new bills into law on gun control?

Nowhere of course because Americans love their guns and they want to keep dirty little secrets like gun control laws, silent.

So here's to America, a big cuppa hypocrisy and getting every shooting rampage death they deserve.

Now the only question is where Überjackass, Charlton Heston when it comes time to self-righteously pontificate on the utility of Americans love for guns and killing?

And let's hear it for President Jesus Bush and Congress.

One brain-damaged life saved, 10 more healthy Americans killed.

Well done.