I Should Kick Myself
The entry into the garage. We had new siding put on the house three…four? years ago. At the time, they also put in new garage doors with openers, new windows in the media room (a 10′x25′ room on the south side of the house). Why I didn’t include this door in the deal is a mystery to me. I remember thinking, “Ooo, this is too much money.” But, honestly, what would another three or four hundred dollars have done to the loan, lien on the house over the course of fifteen years?
Nevermind the decaying concrete ruined by ten years of throwing “snow-melt” on top of it, that now needs to be ripped out and replaced. “All in good time,” I keep thinking. “All in good time.” And then there’s the landscaping. Oh, fuck it. The shoemaker’s kids go without shoes.
So. You want to go for it, do you?
No good will come of cloning Neanderthals.
Bye-Bye, Boner Party
Today Ned Hepburn shut it down. Boner Party, perhaps the greatest bait-and-switch blog of our time, (I’ll distract you with breasts but really I’m going to talk about how it’d be great to just settle down.) is over and done with.
I’m sad to see it go, but I think the last post sums it all up.
Hey bitches
From here.
Since we’re doing this. . .
1963~Nugget and I were both three years old. He was a wise pony.
Redemption
Sorry I’ve been quiet of late. I have much to share that may or may not be of interest to ‘flockers, but this glimpse into the mind of my late Uncle Ray (through a letter to his friend Jim) may provoke:
The once “Bro. Jim”,
After prayer and meditation the Lord, in His wisdom and compassion, has led me to extend the hand of civility and forgiveness to you who have fallen so far from the fold. But I do not want to place undue emphasis on how far you have fallen or the depths of your depravity but rather on the Hope that shines eternal through His grace and redemptive power. It is truly grace because you, of all people, have through your sins, blasphemies and contemptuous behavior, earned an eternity in hell. If you escape your destiny only grace can account for it. It warms my heart to extend a gracious welcome back to the fraternity of the true believers, the promise keepers if you will. All you need to do is open your heart. It matters not that you reek of fish, gin, campsmoke and possibly loose women (could not tell from the fish odor) so long as you are sincere in your confession of sin.
Come as you are as we softly sing “Just As I Am”.
You cannot imagine how my heart swells to see a sinner return to the Truth as I see it. You should be aware that the Lord’s forgiveness is complete and total but mine is more exacting. Lacking the supernatural powers to see into your heart, I must judge by outward behavior. You would serve your rehabilitation well by inviting Joyce and me up to a Cardinal game before the season is over. That would be a splendid sign of an intent to climb out of the cesspool of degradation and self-elevation that you have inhabited.
You were once a good boy. I’ve been told that. By you, but it was convincing at the time. Open your heart. Accept this lifeline. Put on the raiments of salvation and join me when we celebrate for an eternity. Just put your hand on the computer and say “Bro. Ray intercede for me because I am lost and unworthy but I want to be found and redeemed.”
Jesus and I patiently wait,
Bro. Ray
Spiritual Warrior
These letters keep my dear Uncle alive for me. I hope you enjoy them too.
this unique 18-minute genre has its own requirements
From a Wired article on how to ace a TED Talk:
“I’m surprised to see that half the people here know my career in some detail and the other half don’t know who I am,” he says.
Science is fine, but not when it messes with our illusions.
If she had included solar power and African child warriors, it would have been so perfect a TED talk that there would have been no need for others.
Wolfram wraps his talk by saying that when it comes to trying to boil down the universe to a simple algorithm, “it’s almost embarrassing not to at least try.”
“Just because someone has an ego,” he says, citing a writer whose name I can’t read from my scribbled notes, “doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”
Largely why I was hated in high school
Phil once asked somthing like “is there a photo of yourself you wouldn’t show someone?” This would be it, if I were showing it. The dude on the left was my neighbor to the north of our house in the background. We shared a driveway.
All Things Must Pass
It’s an I Ching thing.
Trailer for El Topo (Alejandro Jodorowsky. 1970)
The strangest movie I’d recommend?
Allen Klein presents an ABKCO Film.
fyi
Perforation Problems
Handwritten wisdom and a heart full of soul from Iggy Pop, circa 1995.
it’s been a long road since then, but pressure never ends in this life. ‘perforation problems’ by the way means to me also the holes that will always exist in any story we try to make of our lives. so hang on, my love, and grow big and strong and take your hits and keep going.
all my love to a really beautiful girl. that’s you laurence.
iggy pop
(Thanks to Kate Theimer of ArchivesNext for pointing to this by way of Facebook.)
Scrooge | Lord Buckley
Not to bad-rap the cat’s animation, but if this is new to you, you might want to close your eyes and open your ears to Lord Buckley’s Christmas ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong.
You can get with it if you want to. There’s only one way — straight to the road of love.
A Yuletide message from me to y’all.
Christmas Memory: bb guns
One Christmas, my brother and I got Daisy bb guns. We wanted them bad. We couldn’t wait to shoot them, but it was mid-winter in Rockford. Daddy set us up a stack of boxes packed with newspaper in the basement with a target stapled to the side. It wasn’t long before we bored of straight shootin’ and opted up for tricks. We went upstairs, stole Mom’s hand-mirror off her vanity, and commenced fancy-shootin’ backwards Annie Oakley style. My brother’s first shot riccocheted off the blocks of the basement wall and hit my brother in the back of his head. Didn’t hurt him. Didn’t break the skin. But how he howled. It stung! We could have put an eye out!
I invite all clusterflockers/readers near and far to tell us a Christmas story over the next few days. It would be the best gift we could give each other.
Michael Kenna’s Hokkaido
Michael Kenna. Fading Light, Furano, Hokkaido, Japan. 2004.
Ordinarily I’d not want to follow so swiftly on Deron’s post about the Andy Goldsworthy documentary, but if I don’t do it now, I might be some time.
A short while ago Phil Bebbington sent me a link to this documentary interview with photographer Michael Kenna. I found Michael Kenna’s Hokkaido calming and beautiful, and I want to share it.
“Even in the midst of a storm, it’s a wonderful place to come to ground, in a sense.”
How to buy on eBay
I am continually amazed at how many people incrementally bid up an item they want six days before an auction is over. It’s like watching someone walk around with a switch unknown to him flipped permanently to stupid. It’s easy, really. All it requires is patience, knowing what you want, what it is worth, what you are willing to pay for it, and then, again, and this is the important part — waiting.
It took me a while to figure it out
Michael and Sarah have the same last name.
They Get Like Little Cookies
Brother Blue is gone.
I will try and write about his impact on me. Meantime, this from the Boston Globe.
I Will Not Read Your F-ing Script
Josh Olson wrote the screenplay for A History of Violence. And now everyone wants him to read their script.
You are not owed a read from a professional, even if you think you have an in, and even if you think it’s not a huge imposition. It’s not your choice to make. This needs to be clear–when you ask a professional for their take on your material, you’re not just asking them to take an hour or two out of their life, you’re asking them to give you–gratis–the acquired knowledge, insight, and skill of years of work. It is no different than asking your friend the house painter to paint your living room during his off hours.
He details why he won’t in two glorious pages.
Three definitions of a “reader”
Incisive observations about how we read web content:
Instead of asking, how much can I handle? ask what am I learning? Instead of what do I have time for? ask what is the meaning of it all?
Lately, these question have seemed more pointed than usual. (via Chris Bowler)
A Letter to Merce | Bill T. Jones
I thank you for your prodigious output and the simple truth, which could be a question, a text message from you to me, which asks:
“What will you do now?
What is worth doing and how?”Thank you, Merce.
Goodbye,
Bill T. Jones
Just about a month from now — September 17 — we will have the premiere of choreographer Bill T. Jones’s Fondly Do We Hope . . . Fervently Do We Pray, a work commissioned by the Ravinia Festival and an Illinois Bicentennial Commission in honor of the two hundredth anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s birth. (You can follow the work-in-progress here via a production diary that Jones updates frequently these days.)
Merce Cunningham’s aesthetic and his sensibility feel way over there to Bill T. Jones’s here, or so it seems to me. To Jones, too . . . and yet . . .
Read more
Eunice Kennedy Shriver
Repose en paix:
“When the full judgment of the Kennedy legacy is made — including J.F.K.’s Peace Corps and Alliance for Progress, Robert Kennedy’s passion for civil rights and Ted Kennedy’s efforts on health care, workplace reform and refugees — the changes wrought by Eunice Shriver may well be seen as the most consequential,” U.S. News and World Report said in its cover story of Nov. 15, 1993.
Edward Kennedy said in an interview in October 2007: “You talk about an agent of change — she is it. If the test is what you’re doing that’s been helpful for humanity, you’d be hard pressed to find another member of the family who’s done more.”
Subversive Cross Stitch
I drove this one, a couple times
My brother’s ‘78 Z-28. He ordered it new, got tired of making the payments. Sold it. Kept up with where it was all these years. It is in pristinest of condition. The person who owns it now offered it for his friends to drive in the ride commemorating my brother’s passing. Doesn’t that say something about…?
Oh, y’all! I guess I’m still grieving a bit. Will you pardon my meanderings?
Danny and I were in this car once, alone on a nearly forgotten stretch of road outside Pocahontas’ city limits. I popped the clutch and bounced Danny’s head off the headrest.
Had this been the offer, ’stead of the truck, I’d so be on the road to fetch it. (With apologies for the exposure. I don’t have the energy, just now, to correct it.)