Captain Beefheart’s Ten Commandments of Guitar Playing
4. Walk with the devil
Old Delta blues players referred to guitar amplifiers as the “devil box.” And they were right. You have to be an equal opportunity employer in terms of who you’re bringing over from the other side. Electricity attracts devils and demons. Other instruments attract other spirits. An acoustic guitar attracts Casper. A mandolin attracts Wendy. But an electric guitar attracts Beelzebub.
(From WFMU’s Beware of the Blog. Via Brian Beatty.)
Damar, Mon Amour (out of context)
In context: Starlingo ii.
Damar torn from the flock.
What is Damar? Who is Damar? What is Damar?
headline of the day
Today Is the Last Day to Have Sex with an Animal in Florida—Legally
All Rite Now
“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” (Hunter S. Thompson)
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before
This year’s Calamari “ePress” financial report features rants on eBooks, Facebook, distribution & other things useful or not to others crazy enough to have a small independent press.
Guitar Ensemble: “Our Kindergarten Teacher” (Kindergarten of Ch’ŏngam-guyŏk [Ch'ŏngjin-si, DPR Korea])
I don’t know what to say about this.
“I fight with the handle of my little brown broom”
So Renner and I were emailing just now, and it’s not so weird what happened, as we were talking about Robert Wyatt, together with other stuff . . . . Still. There is this passage at the end of Wyatt’s “Little Red Robin Hood Hit the Road.” The second half, actually. It begins more or less at the three-minute mark. It is sung by Ivor Cutler, and some people think Cutler wrote it, but no, the words are Wyatt’s. The voice is Cutler’s.
“I fight with the handle of my little brown broom,” it begins. And at almost the same instant of our email correspondence, Renner and I quoted that very line to one another by way of reference to our own travails.
That’s what friends are for.
A forgotten place beneath the stars
Joshua Tree Under the Milky Way from Henry Jun Wah Lee on Vimeo.
The wilds of Arkansas weren’t quite this starry, but it was a near thing.
What did I miss?
Josh wondered,
Hmm. This is one of those moments where I feel like there needs to be an examination of whether these sorts of posts are worth the inevitable weariness that results (and I’m speaking more about weariness within Clusterflock itself rather than between Flockers and random commenters).
I don’t believe that it is “these sorts of posts” that work people up and sometimes ignite sparks under the hood. I sure hope not, for I’d hate to see ‘flockers seize up for fear of posting something incendiary.
As often as not, it seems to me there’s a secondary drama unfolding in tandem with certain series of heated comments. Whatsis knows, I’ve been party to such dramas over my four-plus years of participation in this grand experiment.
Does this thought strike a chord with anyone? I ask in part from laziness, as it’s still early on in my day and I need more stimulants. But I’d also really like to hear from a few others before offering my own muddled interpretation of what might be happening when a post appears to trigger frustrated and possibly hurt feelings among ‘flockers themselves.
September 26
I’ll be in Chicago to see Van Dyke Parks and Clare and the Reasons at Schuba’s. Anybody wanna get together? Wanna go to the show with me?
Trouble in Mind
Trouble in mind — I’m blue –
But I won’t be blue always –
The sun’s gonna shine in my back door someday
For those fighting a war within.
Where do I sign up?
My friend, doing her best to sincerely work it online, was assaulted with this profile of a possible “match” on a popular dating website. I think her exact words were “OMG, think I’m in LOVE!” I told her to try chatroulette instead- all the charm, and with video.
I am an outgoing, friendly, caring guy. My friends say I am funny and what not. I enjoy riding my bike, tubing down the Poudre, smoking that dank, and longboarding. My favorite music artists are, Tech N9ne, Wiz Khalifa, Lil Wayne, Cordazar Broadus, and O’Shea Jackson, oh, and can’t forget that Owl City. Movies wise, I enjoy comedy more than any other genre. Caddyshack, Porky’s, Soul Plane, Sex Drive, Step Brothers, and The Hangover. I don’t watch much TV but when I do I like to watch Ren and Stimpy. I am looking for women that enjoy somewhat the same activities as I do. I do not like women who are stuck up and won’t put out. Other than that, bring on the Poon
-Ronya
Eat Me: I ate a Jewboy at Shopsin’s.
I would like to share with you peeps one of my favorite blogs: The Tipsy Baker. She discusses food, family, and cooking (and drinking) in a hilarious, neurotic, obsessive, honest, and casual way and makes most other food writing seem tedious and f’in boring. She raises animals (often illegally), drives hours out of her way for random and annoying ingredients, and gives serious consideration to the psychological torture she inflicts on her family by cooking everything and anything (including pig ears). She is also a fantastic writer, and it’s a pleasure to read her posts not just for the food but for the witty shit she regularly crafts:
I hope you’re reading this, Kenny Shopsin. Do you have a Google Alert set up with your name? Awesome. Your coleslaw recipe sucks. A full tablespoon of salt for half a head of cabbage? Are you fucking with us?
I’m not generally a profane person, but
a. Kenny Shopsin is, and I spent three hours last night rereading his fantastically entertaining book.
b. He ruined my coleslaw.But here’s the kicker. I had a few big glasses of red wine last night and what with the wine and the supersalty coleslaw, I woke up at midnight with a bit of a thirst. So, I made one of Shopsin’s egg creams. Drank it down. Made another. Worth the price of the book.
Her photos are at times unappetizing and often horrifying, but I make no effort to hide my deep desire to make this cardamom cake.
p.s. posted by Ronya. I’m good with the first name.
Cast y’all’s votes, y’all.
Should I be the next Oprah?
solitary bees, the rest of it
Jeremy. Je – re – my. Jeremy.
What?
I didn’t say anything.
Time passes.
You awake?
What?
You awake?
I wasn’t.
Okay.
He waits.
What did you want?
Nothing.
All right.
Jeremy?
Yes?
Never mind.
Read more
solitary bees, 70
What’s a person supposed to do with all this stuff after they’re gone?
Do you have sisters?
No.
It would be easier if you had sisters…. Do you know how to play?
No.
She picks up a piece, looks at him.
Read more
solitary bees, 69
You ever think of how words hold special meaning for each person like there’s a shape a word makes that makes sense to you and it’s maybe just a feeling or a color? Something private that only makes sense to you?
He gets up and unties her.
It is sunny afternoon.
solitary bees, 68
We hear the sound of Jeremy’s voice talking softly in the distance.
My father was a strange bird. Sort of a weird mix of Calvinistic Protestant and secular progressive populist. These elements were always at war within him I think — the desire to do the most good in a common sense way for the average person and a strict adherence to a set of internal principles that made perfect sense to him.
What about your mother?
What about my mother…. Well, that’s a different equation entirely. She always sort of hated my father in a way. Saw their relationship as some sort of obligation. I think she kind of liked it that way I suppose. A contract she could martyr herself to. On some level she shaped me into what she wanted from him. Or at least she tried to. It took me a long time to figure this out — I still don’t think that knot’s completely untied. How about you?
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solitary bees, 67
He has been hunting. It is a bright, clear day and he is on his way home. While he is gone, she has written a note on a piece of paper she has folded into an airplane and tried to throw out the window. Three or four of them made it to various parts of the floor but as he is walking toward the house one of them makes it out the window. He watches it sail above the garden, through the air, into the sunlight. When he gets to it, he picks it up, noticing that there is something written on it. He unfolds the paper.
Fuck it.
He folds the airplane into squares, looks at the window, and tucks it into his back pocket.
solitary bees, 67
I love you, Karen.
What? Shut up, Jeremy. Stick it in.
solitary bees, 66
I want you to pull over, okay?
What?
I want you to pull the car over.
Is everything okay?
Yeah, absolutely.
Does it matter where?
Sort of.
She touches his hair.
Are you serious?
Of course I’m serious.
solitary bees, 65
Jeremy comes back with a tray of sodas and food. He hands a soda to her, sits down.
This one’s basic. This one has chili on it.
The woman looks at him, slurps her straw.
I don’t care. Either one.
Okay.
He hands her the basic one.
Amen, says the woman in front of them.
solitary bees, 64
The woman sitting in front of them looks back over her shoulder.
You’re lucky.
Karen takes a while to realize she is talking to her.
How’s that?
You’re lucky.
She motions in the direction Jeremy has gone.
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solitary bees, 63
Tell me about your vacation?
They are at a ball game in a neighboring town.
I think you’ve had first hand access to it.
No. That’s not what I mean. The one you didn’t go on.
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solitary bees, 62
She throws something at him.
He wakes up.
What?
Have you read the princess and the pea?
Yeah. A long time ago.
What did you think about it?
The obvious, I guess.
Don’t say anything sexist.
What did you think about it, other than being taken care of?
Something she couldn’t ignore but something she didn’t feel comfortable about. Something she wanted to have control over or desensitize herself to. Numb the awareness of.
Are you cold? Do you have enough blankets?
That’s exactly the type of thing I’m talking about; but I’m fine actually. Plenty warm up here. A princess on one mattress.
A while later he is snoring.
