Insert you're Birthday wishes below:
(hint: i'll cry if i get less than 5.)
Eva made me a birthday video, check it out on her blog
If anyone out there is feeling randy, we'll be eating and drinking at American Flatbread tonight after 7pm, then later, just drinking at the O.P. come and say hi, and buy me a beer. or just give me a hug, cause i'll probably be drunk already, and just wanting to give hugs.
As i sat there that evening in Southwold overlooking the German ocean, i sensed quite clearly the earth's slow turning into the dark.... .... The shadow of night is drawn like a black veil across the earth, and since almost all creatures, from one meridian to the next, lie down after the sun has set, so, he continues, one might in following the setting sun, see on our globe, nothing but prone bodies, row upon row, as if levelled by the scythe of Saturn - an endless graveyard for a humanity struck by falling sickness.
I stood before the grave for some time, not knowing what i should think; but
Though there is little else that she can call her own, she always wears the most outrageous bonnets on these walks; one which features a seagull's wing, i remember particularly well because Herr Bein the teacher referred to it in school, telling us we should never kill any creature merely in order to adorn ourselves with its feathers.
The Last entry in my great-uncle adelwarth's litle agenda book was written on the feast of stephen. Cosmo, it reads, had had a bad fever after their return to jerusalem but was already on the way to recovery again. My great uncle also noted that tlate the previous afternoon it had begun to snow and that, looking out of the hotel window at the city, it had begun to snow and that, looking out the hotel window at the city, white in the falling dusk, it made him him think of times long gone. Memory, he added in a postscript, often strikes me as a kind of dumbness. It makes one's head heavy and giddy, as if one were not looking back the receding perspectives of time but ratherdown on the earth from a great height, from one of those towers whose tops are lost to view in the clouds."
As i pictured him, he had taken off his spectacles and put them on the ballast stones by his side. The gleaming bands of steel, the crossbars of the sleepers, the spruce trees on the hillside above the village of Altstadten, the arc of the mountains he knew so well, were a blur before his short-sighted eyes, smudged out in the gather dusk. At the last, as the thunderous sound approached, all he saw was a darkening greyness and in the midst of it, needle-sharp, the snow-white silhouettes of three mountains.
I now sometimes feel that at that moment i beheld an image of death - lasted only a short time, and passed over me like the shadow of a bird in flight.
In august 1992 when the dog days were drawing to an end, i set off to walk the county of suffolk, in the hope of dispelling the emptiness that takes hold of me whenever i have completed a long stint of work. And in fact my hope was realized, up to a point; for i have seldom felt so carefree as i did then, walking for hours in the day through the thinly populated countryside, which stretches inland from the coast. I wonder now, however, whether there might be something in the old superstition that certain ailments of the spirit and of the body are particularly likely to beset us under the sign of the dog star.
"For the history of every individual, of every social order, indeed of the whole world, does not describe an ever-widening, more and more wonderful arc, but rather follows a course which, once the meridian is reached, leads without fail down into the dark."
A shock of recognition shot through me at the grave of Maier Stern, who died on the 18th of may, my own birthday; and i was touched, in a way i knew i could never quite fathom, by the symbol of the writer's quill on the stone of frederike halbleib, who departed this life on the 28th of March 1912. I imagined her pen in hand, all by herself, bent with bated breath over her work; and now,
... And so they are ever returning to us, the dead. At times they come back from the ice more than seven decades later and are found at the edgeof the Moraine, a few polished bones and a pair of hobnailed boots.
And Sir Thomas Browne, who was the son of a silk merchant and may well have had an eye for these things, remarks in a passage of the "pseudodoxia Epidemica" that i can no longer find that in the Holland of his time it was customary, in a home where there had been a death, to drape black mourning ribbons over all the mirrors and all canvasses depicting landscapes or people or the fruits of the field, so that the soul, as it left the body, would not be distracted on its final journey, either by a reflection of itself or by a last glimpse of the land
Of all the remixes, mashups, and repurposed curiosities littering the YouTube landscape, none have mined the rich veins of celebrity and irony in the San Francisco Bay Area quite the way "The Deadbeat Club" does. The only problem: It's broadcast from Vermont. Apparently, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and a little more reckless, as Eva "Deadbeat," a ten-year resident of Northern California, reminisces on good jobs and bad, megastars and mini ones, and a variety of other subjects in her regular broadcasts.
more...
It's my birthday!
silver racing bike that i found literally in the middle of the road one night walking home from drinking (no i didn't steal it.) My guess is that it fell out of the back of a truck... (stop looking at me like that.) Or someone else stole it, and then decided they didn't actually want it. (yeah...)
Hygene Product Questionaire. (excuse me miss, would you describe your monthly flow as "Average" "above average" or "Biblical Flood?")
ighting speed, reclaimed my sweet sweet bikey (mk1) and road off laughing at my fortunes.
Woah dude, i just watched this video and now i'm late for work, time travel man, it's a bitch.
Tonight me and fellow pure poppers (we're a tight crew, old school and current) found a quiet watering hole (t.rugs) and celebrated another pure pop graduation. Tonight it was Sue and Nick, two friends that have been pure poppers as long as i have, in fact Sue's first day was also my own. From here, they're moving on to Berlin, no their not going to take advantage of the amazing deals at Berlin City Automotives, but rather, Berlin the thriving European city. ( aparently their is a thriving neo-nazi skinhead scene that they want to check out...haha joking.)
nt or another find ourselves saying something like "I'm going to move to Berlin....", it's inevitable, we all want out, always - even if it's out of bed, or out of work, out of town, out of your now too tight booth seat at Denny's or out of that weird guy's car - then we take another shot of Dos Dedos, and pass out into our cherios. That's life, right? (right!?)
idualized, intricate, meticulous, minute, album - pure heart and soul, at the moment they're on their... what, almost 3rd year of work on it, daily work - in fact they have 3 tracks left to master... And from the previews i've heard it will all pay off.
The 'Zon (amazon.com)
Ok, so this professionally done bootleg comes into Pure Pop, and usually i don't give a shit except that it's Neil Young, and from around the Tonight's the Night period, you know the "infamous ditch period" etc, so i crap my pants and quickly make a copy of it for myself....
The village Voice has an fun and excellent point making article about freak folk, and the brooklynites who love it... (i love alot of it too, more the No-neck /sunburned/ six organs side, not so much the Devendras and the Danielsons, though i do like the Thompsons... not the twins, but Richard and Linda, and the fairport sound... anyway...)
I've always thought it interesting that the majority of the folkers now adays are coming out of the city, but as i've looked back - for that matter i guess it's always been that way, iron and wine came out of, what Miami florida? and for that matter, The Band, who wrote songs like, up on cripple creek, and the night they drove old dixie down, were... from, what, Toronto or Vancouver (either way they were Canadians...)? CCR... Los Angeles... etc.
Seems like the realities of the people, places, and things that inspire us often tend to leave us less contented than the fantasies themselves... unless of course you're Toby Keith or Lynyrd Skynyrd (as if Toby Keith spends anytime at all livin' the country life... douchebag.)
"Well, I explained, there's this art-farm place down the road in Acra, and they're having an overnight . . . folk . . . show. I didn't want to get into it, really, assuming Brian and Betty probably wouldn't care much about "freak folk" or know much about Free103point9, a somewhat specious if totally well-meaning nonprofit arts organization that had invited eight or so bands, many of them from Brooklyn, to upstate New York for an idyllic mid-July weekend of performance and communion called Campfire Sounds 2006.
"S'cool," Brian replied.
Most of the actual crowd—also primarily Brooklynites interested in getting drunk on a different lawn—camped in the meadow. Nothing against that meadow, but it was obvious that while most had come up the Taconic State Parkway in search of some pastoral ideal; they weren't going to risk a rash for it. Thus their hammocks struck a laudable balance between taut and tender. Park Slope's quietly majestic Stars Like Fleas were the only band who bothered to actually drag themselves into the woods—the second stage was a minuscule tree clearing—for an afternoon set on top of their evening one. (Bonus: They have a harpist.) The afternoon yawned with sets from Melanie Moser and the Dust Dive, the latter weaving half-sung poetry over slow, drifting plates of funerary folk-rock. They also played a song in protest of the new Nets stadium; I scanned the crowd for concerned looks and found none. Flanked by babies and Labradors, some townies, happily deaf to the idea of city kids getting free in the grass because that's what they thought country folk did, sat contentedly in sensible, breathable fabrics we won't concede to until middle age. Later, a local 'tween in a Volcom T-shirt passed me and said, "Hey dude, yeah, hippies, peace!" I smelled my armpits."
