PRM

To atone for my recent nostalgia mongering (but really, if you can't wallow in childhood memories on your own blog, where can you?), I offer you the incalculable coolness of Radiohead.

"Subterranean Homesick Alien"


"Paranoid Android"


"The National Anthem"


Wow, that was satisfying.

New York City's a good ole place to go

I'm off to the Big City for a weekend of urban charm, gritty streets, and most importantly, to celebrate four years of wedded bliss with the effervescent ms. wobs. Yes, if I had it to do all over again, I would.

So, light to no posting for the weekend... although that's pretty much been the rule around here lately, hasn't it? I'll be back on Monday with a new PRM (that won't suck, dr, I promise).

It's not about your fucking convenience

On the way home this evening, I overheard several people talking about how inconvenienced they were by a few hundred dirty fucking hippies who had the temerity to briefly remind them about the clusterfuck that started five years ago today. They had been made late to work, late to a meeting, late to dinner by protesters blocking traffic, blocking entrances, and stridently refusing to block out the images of death occurring every day in the Middle East.

These people have no idea what inconvenience is.

Inconvenience is being displaced from your home by explosives or ethnic cleansing unleashed by this ill-conceived maelstrom.

Inconvenience is never seeing a loved one again because of an idiotic land grab to claim oil wealth and geopolitical advantage.

Inconvenience is losing your limbs, your eyesight, your hearings so that the dauphin king can overcome his daddy issues.

Inconvenience is losing your life for no fucking reason at all.

The thirty minutes you had to wait in traffic doesn't mean shit compared to the inconveniences visited upon millions of people because of this stupid fucking war. So stop your bitching.

PRM

Because some of us feel like wallowing in Gen X nostalgia this evening, I give you the Muppets

with REM...


with Tony Clifton...


and on there own, because there's nothing more Gen X nostalgic than "Mahna Mahna"...

Sunday Night Bambino Blogging plus

I realize I've been stingy with the l'il wobs pics as of late, so here's a two-for-one showing him in many hats, plus a piece I like to call "Some Call Me Tim."

It's not you, it's me

Regrettably, I have nothing to say other than I have a case of the "blahs."

Blah.

PRM

You've been very patient with me.

"Whiskey River"


"Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain"


"Pancho and Lefty" with Bob Dylan

Deconstructionist Movie Night (or, I can't believe I watched this)

Our local library has free movie check-outs and a decent array of flicks, allowing ms. wobs and I to indulge tastes for which we wouldn't normally allocate a nominal rental fee. Hence, our viewing of The Astronaut Farmer. Don't let the story of a dream and gumption bringing a family together fool you. This movie is pro-small business, pro-small government, pro-explosive, pro-(straight)marriage, pro-vigilante, pro-hackneyed cliché, pro-training montage, and, surprisingly, pro-immigrant. Something which I imagine appeals to your average Ron Paul supporter.

Oh, it was also very, very, very pro-manly maleness, in no uncertain terms:


Billy Bob Thornton was competent.

Sorry 'bout that

Huh. I look up and the next thing I know a week has gone by. By way of accounting: Tuesday, movie; Wednesday and Thursday, reading; Friday, tired; Saturday, drinking; Sunday, hungover.

I'll add that Saturday involved hanging out with Joel S., Brian W., and Dan W. and was reminiscent of some nights at High Street, but without the early A.M. drunken bike ride.

PRM

The evening does really call for the World's Greatest Rock n' Roll band, caught in their dirty, dirty prime. Get busy.

"Carol" from 1969 (video will kick in @19 seconds)


"Starfucker" from 1978


"Honky Tonk Woman" from '76 (that's the spirit!)

And furthermore

Not that I'm the type to toot my own horn or anything, but on top of being named an Award Winning Poet, I've also been named a Poet Fellow:


This award only costs $60 and comes with a "24K" Gold Pin. Quite the bargain. How low are you willing to go, International Society of Poets? Do I hear "New Poet of the Year," my picture in the newspaper, and a $45 membership fee? My shit's hot, y'all, and I'm being courted.

To all of you who would diminish my achievements by claiming that this is some sort of ruse to get chumps to donate their hard-earned dollar to an organization of dubious distinction, I say this:

By next week, I'll be fucking Dante, my haiku will be a Broadway musical, and my membership will be free!