You can’t tell from this picture, but there’s a turnip in my fridge. I’m not sure what that signifies, but it feels like a turning point to me, like a rounding of the bend.
Could it mean that the whole parsnip thing is behind me? Am I finally, blessedly, free of their terrible tyranny?
I have begun wearing suspenders. I thought, wouldn’t it be ridiculous if I all of a sudden started wearing suspenders? So I went to Wal-Mart and bought some red ones. I took them home, put them on, and walked around my living room, delighted at how my pants weren’t falling off. Now I’m all “Fuck belts, man. Belts are for losers.”
I’m not wearing them at the moment, however. Sorry, ladies.
Today’s agenda: Drink 6 or 8 beers and peruse turnip recipes on the internet.
Life’s rough, man.
There is still a parsnip in my crisper drawer, though. It beckons to me. Hopefully the beer won’t make me too loosey-goosey. Hopefully I won’t find myself standing in the kitchen, nude, saying “Oh, Dark Master, how I long to suckle upon your delicious teat.”
Wish me luck.
(Source: early-onset-of-night)
Decisions.
(Source: early-onset-of-night)
Whatever, dude. #hardg
Yay!
Michael Kindt’s book, Early Onset of Night, Volume 1, has finally made its brave way across the Atlantic Ocean! It’s signed by the author, has that new book smell and an unbroken spine, and I can’t wait to get started.
It also came with a bonus card with an angry cat on the front, which brightened up my rainy day.
Thanks, Mike! :)
I hope you enjoy it, Ayfa!
There are now 4 copies of my book in Ireland (that I’m certain of). I am weirdly proud about that.
I won’t be doing signed copies for awhile, but you can still buy it on Amazon…even in Europe :)
PS: I WANT A THIN LIZZY T-SHIRT NO FAIR
Landscape With Yellow Birds
by the mighty Paul Klee,
who painted it entirely in the nude,
though fully clothed.
He lived a long time ago,
so the television wasn’t on
in the background,
but I do sense cigar smoke
somewhere.
Perhaps he did this in an atelier,
smoking cigars,
not listening to the television
because it wasn’t really invented yet.
He possessed a phonograph,
I imagine,
on which he only played
the darker Haydn.
Klee’s head is small and severe,
and his hair doesn’t stick out.
There’s a scrunched quality to his face,
with a hint of constipation,
and it sports a very square jaw.
This jaw squareness goes along
with the rest of the squareness
in his face.
His eyes are direct and penetrating.
He was a warrior and fought
at the time when warriors had spikes
on the tops of their helmets.
He spoke German and was German,
despite the embarrassment
of being born in Bern.
(Not a real town).
Perhaps he killed a man in France,
near the trenches,
while Snoopy flew overhead on his doghouse.
Though a warrior
with a phallic spike jutting from his helmet,
he was not a fan of war
and would not get along swimmingly
with current American neo-cons,
no matter what the the tabloids say.
He wrote at war’s outset: “I have long had this war in me.
That is why,
inwardly,
it is none of my concern.”
His two best friends,
Marc and Macke,
died in battle,
so he was wrong.
Klee suffered from scleroderma
and it would eventually kill him.
A systemic autoimmune disease
affecting primarily the skin,
it gradually removes the supple softness
of humanity,
replacing it with the fibrous, scaly hardness
of the reptilian.
It is terribly painful
and many art writers have noted
with comic obviousness
that Klee’s pain
seeped into his work.
This is like saying the sky is blue
and the ground dirty.
One of his last paintings,
“Death and Fire”,
features a skull
with the German word for death,
which is “Tod”.
The next time you meet a person
named Todd,
remember to laugh inwardly.
He died in Switzerland,
the land of his birth,
in 1940.
Despite being born in Switzerland
and even dying there,
he was not a Swiss citizen.
His attempts at it were always refused,
the sole reason being his art.
The staid and narrow-minded authorities
felt his painting was too revolutionary,
even degenerate,
for him to be Swiss.
Six days after his death, however,
they had a change of heart
and granted him posthumous
citizenship.
Bzzz! Too late.
He is buried in the ground
at Schosshaldenfriedhof,
in Bern.
(Not a real town).
If you happen to stop by,
tell him Mike says
“Hi”.
(Source: early-onset-of-night)
Perhaps I will write about it one day. Won’t be around for a few days while I get my head straight. Love ya guys and talk to you soon.
I also bake bread.
(Source: early-onset-of-night)
Precisely.
(Source: early-onset-of-night)
Bring it, bitches.
I set the phone down on speaker and listen to the garbled music, waiting. Eventually, a real live person comes on thinking he has a bite. I talk to them either a long time, pretending interest, or a short time. It depends on how bored I get.
I say shit like “Oh, yah, you betcha! That’s sounds like a real key deal. Tell me more.”
Don’t ask me why I do this with a Minnesota accent, but I do.
Then CLICK I hang up.
I’m telling you, this is way better than any “do not call” list. Those are universally ignored by these assclowns anyway. Wasting their time and thus money is a very good way to get them to stop calling, plus it’s funnier.
(Source: early-onset-of-night)
Let that which stood in front go behind,
Let that which was behind advance to the front,
Let bigots, fools, unclean persons, offer new propositions,
Let the old propositions be postponed,
Let a man seek pleasure everywhere except in himself,
Let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself.
- Walt Whitman
Tagged politics, obviously.
Here in my town last year, a city council member got all racist and birther with a news reporter. I wrote about it once before.
It seems that an important decision was before the city council. One that was newsworthy. A reporter for a local tv station, who happened to be a black woman, was doing her job as a reporter and calling the city council members to get their opinion and anything else they might have to say about this apparently important issue. Most gave a no comment or an innocuous non-statement. One, however, got pissy.
Why did SHE want to know? Was SHE going to vote? No, obviously. It was a vote before the city council. Was she even American? Should we send her back to Kenya with Obama? Et cetera.
I’m serious.
So it all blew up and then he pretended he didn’t know she was black. This lady is a TELEVISION reporter for the local news. She appears on local tv every evening. Yet this guy didn’t know she was black.
Whatever, dude. We here in South Dakota might be rural. We might be simple in the Lynard Skynard “Simple Man” context, but we ain’t idiots.
No one would suggest a person go back to Africa UNLESS they knew they were black. I mean, come on.
So the reporter lady was a bit miffed. Rightfully so. She complained to the mayor and an investigation was launched. The dipshit in question eventually “apologized” but in the most unapologetic way ever. It was an unapology, sort of “I didn’t do anything wrong, but since everybody’s mad, yeah, I guess I’m sorry”.
That shit wasn’t good enough for a lot of us. Some politically active person started a recall petition so that we can put this clown’s ass up to a vote and I got in my car and actually drove down to sign it.
I have never done that with a petition before. I always sign petitions, too. I figure, let’s vote on it! no matter what it is. But I only sign them when I run into them….at the library getting books, at the courthouse paying fines, at the strip mall buying beer.
This time, though, I went to THEM.
They were sitting in a circle in a corner of Black Hills Bagels. They were all surprisingly old. I looked around when I entered and they noticed me looking around. I made the pen sign with my hand….”Check, please!”
They all nodded.
I went over. Immediately, the youngest woman in the circle, who was about 85, poked a big fancy microphone in my face. She was from NPR. Would I care to share why I was signing the petition?
“Because I thought those were racist comments and I don’t want a racist on my city council,” I said.
They all nodded and smiled.
So I signed the petition, wished them luck, and went up to the counter and got a giant pizza bagel.
It was fucking excellent.
whiteysplace replied to your post: After much consideration, I have decided that no conspiracies are true.
I, myself, I have always been fond of the Christmas Elf Conspiracy. The horror… The horror….
I wish a conspiracy would be true. Just one. Personally, I lean toward Kennedy, but then…
I think about conspiracies and no one can keep their mouth shut. If there is a conspiracy, there’s no way it could be “vast”. Bill Clinton got a hummer in a room which contained only him and Monica and the entire planet found out. Imagine trying to keep hundreds of people in line.
Humans are a self-serving and unruly lot. I don’t buy the cohesion, the long-term cohesion needed to perpetrate all these conspiracies.
Plus, not one goddamn conspiracy has been proven. Many, if not most, have been disproved. Prove at least ONE fucking conspiracy to me and then you can show me a blurry picture of a guy wearing a backpack and claim Obama did it to take our guns.
We landed on the moon. Lee Harvey Oswald killed Kennedy alone. 911 was perpetrated by Satanists with their own cocks so far up their asses they actually thought of themselves as Muslims. The Boston Bombers were the Boston Bombers and Benghazi is a desperate cry for help from a dying right wing.
Every other one you can think of is wrong, too. Cobain killed himself. UFOs are not real and the Bermuda Triangle is actually a distorted rectangle.
The real conspiracy, the one no one has thought of, is that all conspiracies are fake, made up by simple-minded people who mistake themselves for otherwise. They have difficulty fathoming such terrible concepts as “randomness” and “evil” and so prescribe these things to some sort of giant machine working in the background, usually called “the government”.
“If God did not exist, it would be necessary to create him,” indeed.
STEVE THORPE: Fire Nuns impresses with new CD -
The first place I really heard Wax Bananas was last summer at the BAM Festival in Woodle Park in Sturgis. I was impressed. It was four young men — Hadrian Michael Kindt on guitar and vocals, Sam Matson on lead guitar, Adam Mundorf on bass and Steven Cady on drums — who know their instruments and play well together.
This year, the Wax Bananas have become Fire Nuns, and have released their first CD, “Dad, Jr.” Their instrumentation is clean and intricate. They have the beat. I find myself bopping at the keyboard, listening to “Dad, Jr.”
I hear things that remind me of the Beatles, various metal bands I didn’t like well enough to remember a name and something I think of as Euro-pop. I might be missing some blatant imitation, but I doubt it it. These young men have taken too much care in everything else to be anything but original.
Some of the songs touch me. “Three In One” has a ’60s sort of appeal: “In the sunshine, don’t you know, you can do whatever you want.” “Everybody’s Perfect” takes me back to my childhood, and cracks open a little bubble of nostalgia that makes me smile.
“Girl From Another Town” is my favorite. It reminds me a bit of Simon and Garfunkel’s “America,” with a definite 21st century twist. Boy going to see his mom, meets girl on a bus, she puts him at ease and takes him home for tea and chocolate fondue. Mom is worried and calls the cops, “because she thought I was lost, but in my mind I had been found by the girl from another town.”
For more information on Fire Nuns, go to http://firenuns.bandcamp.com/ or email them at Firenuns@gmail.com.
Allow me a Proud Papa moment :)