“…massive rabbit-killing drives, where settlers chased and clubbed rabbits while still outfitted in their Sunday best, a perfect symbol of the collective madness that soon swept the Plains along with the gales.”
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down home radio is roots music’s last stand on the internet. we gotta save folk music from those 20-something bearded fucks.*
*i’m lookin at you, sam beam and bon iver type dudes
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Smog - “Rock Bottom Riser”
saw him on friday. one of the best shows i’ve been to.
finally watched the curb your enthusiasm finale
- George: I'll never meet anyone else again.
- Jerry: Probably not.
- George: Meeting is hard.
- Jerry: Meeting is hard. Why can't you meet?
- George: Can't meet! Why is that?
- Jerry: This is what single people are thinking about the minute they wake up in the morning. And yet we're surrounded by people. They're right next to us! On the bus, on the street...but we can't meet them.
- George: Why won't they meet us?
- Jerry: Because strangers have a bad reputation.
- George: A few bad strangers ruined it for the rest of us.
- Jerry: It's unfortunate.
Robert McGee, survived being scalped at age 13 by Brulé Sioux Chief Little Turtle on a wagon train bound for Fort Union, New Mexico.
Digging
by Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
Weird Al Yankovic - “The Saga Begins”
itt: my childhood.
i did nothing but play Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic and eat clementines all weekend. my potential has been overshadowed by my sister, so my parents will have to learn to settle. at least i know what the battle of endor is, right mom and dad?
tip: eat a clementine with a few chocolate chips. it is delicious.
