Get back

16 09 2014

You know how people give you the back of the hand?

Well, this is Trickster’s preferred stance toward me:

Ignore that clawed-up ottoman.

Ignore that clawed-up ottoman.

Of course, sometimes giving me the back is simply a second effect to much larger (and known-only-to-her) purpose.

002

There is nothing on the other side of that door except floor and more doors. Doesn’t end her fascination, though.

007

No, I don’t usually have extra bags of cat food sitting around, but there was a sale!

She can’t even face me when she’s sitting in my lap.

010And when she’s had enough of that, she slithers on to the desk and comports herself just so:

012

Yes, I am clearly the center of her existence.





Listen to the music: It’s an inconvenient time

15 09 2014

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?

I’ve dabbled in summersongs (fallsongs—or autumnsongs?—coming up!) and kicked around a song or two here and there, but after the disquisition on GY!BE and Miss Holly, the lacunae is noticeable.

I have been listening. This fistful of cds was, like the last, dominated by two names (albeit three performers): David  and Macy Gray, and Nanci Griffith (and rather a lot of Nanci Griffith). Unlike the last time, I zipped right through my listening of them, and ended with some lovely Charlie Haden.

The music wasn’t the problem: I just couldn’t be arsed to write about them.

Both of the Grays have the kinds of voices I like: a bit low, and skritchy. I mean, I’m not a Dave Matthews fan, but when he sings with, say, Emmylou, I dig that rasp.

Mr. Gray is another bloke I was introduced to while (whilst?) in Canada. He’s a bit of a mope, but what saves him, most of the time, from emo-overload are the bites he’ll snap out of the woe. There aren’t really any laughs in his songs, but there’s a sardonic sensibility which, again, cut against the despair.

I do wish for alternate production on some of his songs—he’s a sucker for the big whoomp—but when I’m havin’ one of those days, Life in Slow Motion goes down well with a beer or whisky and a slouch in the couch.*

And Nanci? Yeah, man, lotta cds. Her voice has a bit of the kewpie to it, but she’s a hell of a songwriter and I appreciate the hell out of the bottom-line humanness of her tunes.

And her cd, Flyer, helped get me through my dissertation. All hail Flyer!

~~~

234. David Gray, Life in Slow Motion
235. David Gray, a new day at midnight
236. Macy Gray, On How Life Is
237. Macy Gray, Id
238. Nanci Griffith, Storms
239. Nanci Griffith, Blue Roses from the Moon
240. Nanci Griffith, clock without hands
241. Nanci Griffith, Heart in Mind
242. Nanci Griffith, The Dust Bowl Symphony
243. Nanci Griffith, Flyer
244. Nanci Griffith, Other Voices, Too
245. Charlie Haden, The Montreal Tapes
246. Charlie Haden & Pat Metheny, beyond the Missouri Sky

*I don’t currently own a couch, but the line doesn’t work as well with “my one upholstered chair”.





All things weird and wonderful, 46

14 09 2014

A fox, which flies. From India. An Indian Flying Fox.

Otherwise known as a “bat”.

Indian Flying Fox 2 sm

Traer Scott Photography

What a glorious thing is chance and necessity, allowing for the emergence of mammals with wings where their arms could be.

And she is a night animal—my kind of animal. Along with the serval and the otter, the kangaroo rat and the possum, the snow leopard and the moth, creatures great and small and maybe a little bit creepy, Traer Scott has photographed them (not quite all).

But this is the one which captured me.

What a magnificent shot of a magnificent creature.

~~~

h/t Daily Dish





You’ve got to fight for your right to party

11 09 2014

Smartphones everywhere and no video?

Please let there be video:

There’s some sort of unofficial birthday/Iron Dog-type/snowmachine party in Anchorage. A nice, mellow party, until the Palin’s show up. There’s beer, of course, and maybe other things. Which is all fine, but just about the time when some people might have had one too many, a Track Palin stumbles out of a stretch Hummer, and immediately spots an ex-boyfriend of Willow’s. Track isn’t happy with this guy, the story goes. There’s words, and more. The owner of the house gets involved, and he probably wished he hadn’t. At this point, he’s up against nearly the whole Palin tribe: Palin women screaming. Palin men thumping their chests. Word is that Bristol has a particularly strong right hook, which she employed repeatedly, and it’s something to hear when Sarah screams, “Don’t you know who I am!” And it was particularly wonderful when someone in the crowd screamed back, “This isn’t some damned Hillbilly reality show!” No, it’s what happens when the former First Family of Alaska comes knocking. As people were leaving in a cab, Track was seen on the street, shirtless, flipping people off, with Sarah right behind him, and Todd somewhere in the foreground, tending to his bloody nose.

I generally avoid the half-guv, but c’mon, this is a can of Pringles to me.

I should also note that I am rather-too fond of the notion of bar brawls, treating them, affectionately, as a kind of good-time-gone-wrong.

I’ve never actually been in a bar fight (that I can remember, at least), but I’d like to think that, at some point before I die, I’d be involved in a tavern-related mêlée.

If not, well, after my next eye surgery, I’ll explain the facial bruises the same way I explained the bruises of my last surgery: bar fight.





You know, I’ve got a funny feeling I’ve seen this all before

10 09 2014

President Obama is speaking now about the necessity of going after ISIL, currently the most rabid of death-eaters of the Middle East.

ISIL is terrible, and terrible for the people of Iraq and Syria.

The US, by waging war on and in Iraq, has helped (but did not solely) prepare the ground on which ISIL arose. The Iraqi government, thru spectacular mismanagement and churlish policies toward its Sunni citizens, fertilized that ground, and Syrian President Assad, by emptying his jails of militants, gleefully seeded it.

Whatever the US responsibility for ISIL’s rise, however, it is not at all clear that we have the competence to clean up our own mess.

I wasn’t opposed to the limited bombing in support of the evacuation of the Yazidis, largely because it was limited in time and place and for a specific purpose, and for which the alternatives, including doing nothing, were unlikely to work in preventing a massacre.

But this, this expanded campaign  to “degrade, and ultimately destroy” ISIL?

No.

The president’s speech was short, and of the parts which weren’t filled with the usual boo-yah blather, strove for a combination of modesty and determination: no ground troops, working with allies, humanitarian assistance, strikes in Syria (not modest!), all geared toward long-term peace.

Peace—what a lovely idea.

But if we are determined to eliminate ISIL, modesty likely will not do, and I am concerned that if these modest efforts don’t work or work as well or as quickly as the war-bangers want, then we’ll hear—are already hearing—that determination requires immodesty, and by gum the US is weak, weak, I tell ya!, unless we’re willing to kill and die and kill some more.

As I’ve mentioned before, I do not believe that we act ably or well in our military endeavors in the Middle East.

It’s not so much that I fear that we might fail as believe that we have already failed, and with this re-engagement, are about to amplify that failure.





Hit me with your best shot

9 09 2014

I blame alcohol, George Clooney, and a coupla’ migraines.

For my being missing in action, that is. I could come up with more reasons, and there may actually be other reasons, but the first line is my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

Onward!

1. It should come as no surprise that I am uninterested in the newest Apple product, be it a smartphone or, yeesh, a smart watch—oh, excuse me “smartwatch”.

Really. A “smartwatch”.

I have a mere smart watch. It’s a Timex. It keeps time, and looks good—looks smart—doing it.

It cost me somewhere between 30 and 40 bucks and will last for years. It costs me ten bucks every coupla’ years to replace the battery.

The Applewatch (!) costs 350 bucks and will last, well, that doesn’t matter, since it’ll be ditched for ApplewatchII in 13.45 months (I made that up), and which battery likely cannot be replaced.

If you like your gadgets to do absolutely everything and Apple gives you faraway eyes, then enjoy your smartwatch.

I’ll be in the cave with my many devices, each of which does one thing, and cursing because I can’t find the right one.

2. I was sorely tempted to join the Democratic Party just so I could vote against Andrew Cuomo in the New York state primary.

I couldn’t, in the end, force myself into the Dems: I am pragmatic enough to vote for them, but leftwing enough not actually to become one.

Anyway, Andrew Cuomo is a conniving asshole who hates New York City and he almost certainly will be my governor for the next 4 years.

Better than Scott Walker, yes, but about par with a migraine and much worse than alcohol or George Clooney.

3. Speaking of Scott Walker, I would most like to win the lottery so I could drop a barge-full of money on the Badger state advocating for his opponent, Mary Burke.

I so so so want him to lose lose lose. Not only because I think he’s making Wisconsin worse, but also because that should put a stake in his presidential aspirations.

4. It has occurred to me that I might be better off if I just do one, grand, Fisking of all of Rod Dreher’s blog posts and be done with it.

I don’t think I will—see: migraine—but it might help to stop the mutterings and splutterings after reading him.

Of course, not reading him would also help to stop those mutterings and splutterings, but let’s not get all logical here, all right?

5. And logic? Please call Andrew Sullivan. In today’s “Best of” post (to which I’m not linking, because I still haven’t ponied up the double sawbucks for unlimited access and don’t want to waste a click), he states that:

I’ve never really felt totally comfortable identifying with a whole lot of what’s called gay culture.

This, from a man who runs a “Beard of the Week” feature.

Who gushes over Pet Shop Boys.

Who complains about the artifice of Lady Gaga by comparing her, unfavorably, to Miss Authenticity herself, Madonna.

Who has repeatedly mentioned how club culture and insta-fucking helped him feel more at ease with (gay) men of all races.

But because he doesn’t want to march in “lefty lockstep orthodoxy”, somehow he’s outside of a whole lotta gay culture.

Uh huh.

(To his credit, he does note the irony of writing this after having returned from his annual summer sojourn to Provincetown.)

6. Finally, I was going to write something about Joan Rivers, but wasn’t at all sure what to say.

I was huge fan in high school (Can we talk?) but my delight in her fell off rather considerably over the years: what had seemed daring later, to me curdled into mean, and I rarely laughed at her jokes anymore.

Still, she did help to form my sensibility that comics really ought to be able to say anything, and the only thing that mattered to the craft was: was it funny?

(And, it should be said, that bit on her reality show in which she got high with a friend was fucking hilarious. It’s not as funny on second viewing, but oh did I laugh the first time I saw it. Go here, and fast forward to about 26:05.)

Anyway, I read this, which seemed about perfect.

h/t Scott Lemieux, Lawyers, Guns & Money





Summersongs: Martha and the Vandellas

3 09 2014

Labor Day has come and gone but the heat remains.

Now, I generally associate Stax and soul music more with heat than Motown, but this happy tune bounces over an insistent beat, and while the anti-war protests hadn’t really yet hotted up, I can’t help but hear the call to dance in the street as a kind of if-I-can’t-dance. . . defiance.

I could pull out a political undertone from this tune, too, but honestly, I just hear that there’s no way to escape the heat—and maybe that ain’t so bad.








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