Made the connecting flight at Munich with no problems despite a twenty minute delay. Stepping onto the next plane to Philly, I suddenly found myself surrounded by people from back home. That's when I remembered what America's greatest export is: dorks.
After staying awake for twenty hours, I kept drifting in and out of conciousness, usually punctuated by spasmodic starts. One's life starts looking less like days and nights and more like ripped pieces of fabric.
Of course customs searched my in Philly -- they always do, probably because I'm black. Arrived with no major mishaps, other than the five hour layover in Philly turned out to be a seven hour layover. I even refrained from getting a philly sandwich in Philly. Can you believe they wanted almost nine bucks for a steak and cheese sandwich? And the water in the water fountains tasted awful.
I better let these dogs out. They are crawling around on their bellies like a pair of furry freakish commandos.
What a mess this place is. I wonder what happened. Who ate all those bagels? Who's phone number is on this slip of paper? Who chewed up a plastic bottle that was in the garbage? Who was playing badminton in the garden at 6am?
In commemmormanation of the first moon landing, I present to you irrefutable proof that the landing was faked. It'll blow your mind, man. Here. I mean, there ain't no stars! [more]
Admiral. Explorer. Muslim. Eunuch. Leader of the greatest exploratory fleet known in his day; in fact, the biggest damn wooden ships ever built. 317 of them. The Chinese admiral Zheng He.
Okay.. Thirty years late, but now I know: it's not "nigh jer"; it's "knee jair". Don't ask me how I thought that country was pronounced when I was seven (blushes).
Hell yeah, it's getting done. The first batch of flyers are done. We postponed posting tonight due to rain. God, I just went out in the garden for a few minutes just now and it felt great. It was the kind of rain--and that kind of weather-- that would make you believe that the earth is nothing but one big paradise. But I digress...
I hope to have enough people to help out put up a coupla hundred this week, and lay them out strategically in clubs. Then, when I come back in a month, voila! No more dog poop. That's the plan, stan.
Rome burst into flames on this day in 64 CE, a fire that lasted six days in which two-thirds of Rome was destroyed. It is up to debate whether Nero really had the fire started so as to build his extravagant Domus Aurea project, but public suspicion is most likely why he chose to blame it on the Christians, who were already widely disliked. Damn hippies. As a result, Nero had them rounded up and killed in the most brutal fashion imaginable. It is often forgotten that most Romans actually found the extreme brutality of Nero's persecution of the sect rather excessive and caused public opinion to shift in favor of the Christians. 200 years later, Emperor Constantine converts to Christianity. Here.
In 1951, one little turd was so overdue for a premium ass kicking. But he wasn't there for kicking; he was the catcher. The catcher in the rye, first published today. One of the greatest American novels. I should read it sometime.
Whoops. Fixed the link to the Schickele song down below. Go listen.
Just another thing-- in case you caught the end of Guy Noir preceding the song I wanted you to hear, you might be wondering about the significance of the minimalist gag. Well, Peter Schickele was a close friend and classmate of Phillip Glass at Juliard. So there.
Also, Phil told Pete to go see the film Bucket of Blood, which he did on his wedding night. Said it was a great film and I hope to see it someday.
It means a jealous person. It comes from Shakespeare's Othello. Origins. I don't care what the PoMo idol topplers think. Shakes was a righteously clever bastard.
While one green-eyed monster might get violent, maybe, say, throw a bottle at someone, another more poetic monster would present his or her ex-lover with a bar of the finest bittersweet chocolate. Othello even done kill his chick.
Still, some green-eyed monsters are more furry than fangy and just go home. That's the hardest path to take for a monster. Still, such monsters can ride with my posse any day.
Never have so many lies been told than before the election, during the war, and after the hunt. --Otto von Bismark (my translation), printed on the inside of the cover flap of a package of cigarette papers.
I had to get Ron to hear this tune after he started cranking out a chord progression on the squeezebox that was almost identical to it. Listen--starts around 24:00. It's from David Düsing and the infamous Professor Schickele, the Moses of Nerd Rock.
Great, nerdy lyrics, and a killer chord progression. And yes, we will cover it.
Schaubudensommer. It's a yearly treat thrown in the Scheune's backyard. Kind of an alternative sideshow, with tents and whatnot, kind of a rough 'round the edges Cirque de Soleil.
Well it's more rough than out there 'round the edges; no sword swallerin' or human pincushions.
Word is that the Great Voltini is the act to catch. Come early, because they fill the tent every time. My longtime aquaintance from music school, Annamateur, is also not to miss.
We went to see the Gosh Brothers, a duo after Dude Dude Chick's own heart.
We also saw Hikoki Gumo, and I can't recommend that. Georg, known in the past for lashing together a giant tower of wooden poles, has his own tent this year.
It started quite nicely, with Georg taking one staff and doing a beatiful kata, then taking all twelve poles and a string and balancing them in a graceful swinging tripod formation. Then he carefully stuffs them all through his shirt--tedious, but amusing. Then he stands in the middle of the round stage and takes off the shirt, leaving a shirt teepee.
Interesting, but that's it. So I went away a bit disappointed.
We also sat in the flying armchair, a work of Jim's Bimbo Town.
I must admit that I loved to hate Ari Fleischer, but still he was good at his job. Respect. McClellan, on the other hand... What a bumbling incompetant.
"Beware the leader who bangs the drum of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor. For patriotism is indeed a double-edged sword. It both emboldens the blood, just as it narrows the mind."
Looking at this first batch of listening comp tests, there's going to be a pretty strong curve added. The highest score was I think a 2,3 and that was me.
Part of a lyric Johnny Cash sang. The melody is almost Identical to the verse from Tom Petty's "I won't back down". There's a southern accent, where I come from The young'uns call it country The Yankees call it dumb I got my own way of talkin' But everything is done, with a southern accent Where I come from ... There's a dream I keep having Where my mama comes to me And she kneels down over by the window And says a prayer for me I got my own way of prayin' But every one's begun With a southern accent Where I come from
And if you haven't already heard yesterday, the notes of the Time magazine journalist surrendered Saturday allegedly reveal the source who "outed" CIA agent Plame -- spouse of an ambassador who was a most vocal critic of the Bush admin's grounds for Iraqi invasion -- was none other that Karl Rove, arguably the most powerful man in the world.
While the journalist in question faced prison time for protecting an unnamed source, Rove now could face perjury charges for lying to a grand jury or even possibly treason charges for revealing the identity of a clandestine agent. The death penalty is still in effect for a federal treason conviction.
Understandably, Rove will deny everything and no evidence will ever be found for an indictment. The only question now, is whether this news will effect the conventional wisdom stateside enough to bring about a long-needed backswing of the pendulum.
Painted all night while listening to BBC radio. The big story was the ten Live 8 concerts, a series of music festival which, unlike its twenty years previous removed ancestor, intended not to raise aid money but awareness preceding this week's G8 summit.
I must admit that the story blessed this weary cynic with an irrepressible feeling of optimism. Is this what the sixties felt like? Could this really be the milestone that marks the beginning of heaven on earth?