Listics

Tomi Lahdesmaki…

Golby echoes Locke’s drumbeat of demystification with a post today that contains a post within the post and in other ways provides strong echos of Hamlet and competition for Shakespeare in this modern genre.

These two posts, "Kate’s Difficult Life" and "Finding Kate Moss" should be read together. 

Mike’s passionate coverage of the American Global War has been interrupted by an urge to explore some pop cultural nuances in the context of his own life and history.  "I write," he says.  "It’s what I do.  Nothing else matters."

I have often explained to my children that they come from a long line of
unremarkable people. Much as we’d like to assume otherwise, we all do. I have
also explained to them that none of us had happy childhoods. Much as we’d like
to assume otherwise, none of us did. – Mike Golby

Bill Kreutzmann’s son Justin has a blog.  It’s called Rock and Reel.  Justin is a film maker.  I was reading comments at Danny Miller’s and there was "Justin Kreutzmann," and how many Kreutzmann’s are there in this world?  I had to click through.  (Plus, it was my recollection that one out of every three boys born between 1967 and 1980 in the San Francisco Bay Area was named Justin).

I’m delighted to see that he’s blogging.

And it burns, burns, burns
The ring of fire
The ring of fire.

It must be more than ten years since I was sitting in a scummy hotel bar in Plano, Texas listening to some EDS mainframe geek lie not all that convincingly about how he wrote "Ring of Fire" for Johnny Cash.  I didn’t know until I read Danny Miller’s review of "Walk the Line" this morning that it was actually June Carter’s song .

"Walk the Line" stars Joaquin Phoenix as the man in black, and Reese Witherspoon as his inamorata.  I am not ashamed to say that Ms. Witherspoon captured me with her filmic tour de force, "Legally Blonde," and I look forward to seeing what she can do with a role as a brunette.

The snow came a day or two too soon.  It’ll be melted by the time Wendy’s here.  She’s NEVER seen snow. 

This morning I read the execrable Ms. Suitt.  Then I streaked on to formerly Nazi occupied France where I read Madame L’s Reading Cow, a palette cleanser of a blog if ever there was one.  Gets the icky taste of trite right out your mind.

I like Halley.  As a person.

Sutro the dog was a very fine dog except when she ate cat shit.  I used to say,  "I like Sutee as a dog, I just hate everything she stands for." 

On another note, the Nation has an article about the economic history of rum, the essence of gloablization.

And finally, thanks to Madame L. for the Thanksgiving link.  I never owned a Pontiac, really.

On Thanksgiving Day, many Native Americans
    and their supporters gather at the top of Coles Hill, overlooking Plymouth Rock, for the
    "National Day of Mourning."

Setting up for a run off-off-off-off-Broadway, actually - in San Francisco,

Pullover Productions and STYPTIC present their 2024 holiday musical, The Foreskin of Christ, a new work about cloning, politics and religion. One of San Francisco’s producers of new theatre works, Pullover Productions offers an engaging look into the future and what could happen if religion, greed, biotechnology and lust fall into the hands of one man, the President of the United States.

"My shoulders my earlids." Madame Levy, seated in the short chair, writes lovingly about puppy dogs and pussy cats, daughters and an owl’s nests high in the walnut tree.

 No, woman, no cry.

Said - said - said: I remember when we used to sit
In the government yard in trenchtown,
Oba - obaserving the ’ypocrites
As they would mingle with the good people we meet.