Thursday, 02 March 2006

One Vicious Whinge . . . . . . can be found below the fold. I really need to take a deep breath and just not post some nights. I want to thank everyone who inquired about my health and sanity after yesterday's post. Yesterday was one of those days which feints split fingers to your eyes only to land solid a knee in regions sunless and tender. Terrible beyond the telling it was. If I were within ICBM range of "normal" I could've shook it off with a thought. But I haven't slept soundly in over week because the drugs don't work anymore. No not those drugs. I'm no user. I'm a generic-thyroid-hormone-replacement-drug abuser. So if I sent you the email which confirmed your suspicion that I'm an unreliable drunk please reconsider. I'm no drunk. I'm in remission. (Maybe one day the doctors will tell me when one's cancer ceases its remission and I can be declared healthy again. I want my bona fides back.) So no real post tonight. I composed silly thing in which I replaced all the books on my desk with slight variations such that V For Vendetta became "Hey there Henrietta!" and Mervyn Peake "Heard 'Em Speak." But I've decided to spare you that disaster for the time being. So instead I'll treat you to the song which has had me in tears for days now. [The first person to remind me that my thyroid currently has undue influence over my emotions wins a swift kick to their very vulnerable shins.] Kevin's been posting about music of late and I feel left out. No more! I too am enamoured of the new Flaming Lips album and saddened by Grandaddy's demise—not to mention the other thing mentioned in that post that I'm still too choked up to comment on—but I wanted to share some Vanderslice with the masses. His brilliance is underappreciated and I aim to rectify that situation. So here is some [caution this link'll activate your default .mp3 player] vintage Vanderslice. It's called "Angela" but the song's more about the bunny than the bird. (Had I not been reading the Moore this afternoon "the bird" would never have entered my mind as appropriate. 'Cause it ain't. But it's awesomely alliterative so I left it there. Yes this is all an elaborate pun. I'd be less cryptic but I'm juiced like newly discovered Nabokov tonight.) This'd be the perfect moment to explain everything to everyone . . . but I refrain for fear of factors constraining and formulaic. More tomorrow. 'Cause those pins and needles fail to press significantly enough to feel. I get it. I'm a loser. Baby. So why don't you kill me. [Answer: I don't want to die. If I did I had myself opportunity enough.]
My Lecture: A Play in One Infuriating Act It is Friday morning. It has been drizzling for a little under an hour. The streets become rivers. Tiny coastal towns are buried beneath fifteen tons of mud. On the sidewalks the water is four inches deep. Pedestrians try to find the shallowest puddles and invariably fail. The few who succeed are immediately drenched by the wake of a passing automobile. God hates the self-satisfied. A man in a spiffy tweed coat sloshes through the results of this civil engineering disaster. On his face is a look of determination. He has a lecture to attend come Hell or high water . . . but he hopes it doesn't come to Hell. The man in the snappy tweed jacket arrives at his destination. He is wet and cold and tired. He finds a seat next to a few friends and prepares to hear a lecture about his advisor's advisor's new book from a renowned scholar. RENOWNED SCHOLAR: I believe [the Tweedy Fellow's advisor's advisor] says X. TWEEDY FELLOW: (to himself) No he doesn't! He says nothing of the sort. He's a Y man! What's all this about X? RENOWNED SCHOLAR: [The Tweedy Fellow's advisor's advisor] is heavily invested in X. Without it his argument is worthless. But with it (pause for effect) it is also worthless. Therefore he is worthless! TWEEDY FELLOW: (to himself) This guy's charming and funny but he doesn't get it. He thinks [my advisor's advisor] says X. Why would he think X? Why would anyone? Time passes, er, the Tweedy Fellow passes the time by re-re-re-re-reading a .pdf of his advisor's advisor's book to make sure he hasn't missed something. He hasn't. RENOWNED SCHOLAR: In closing I hope everyone can see that [the Tweedy Fellow's advisor's advisor] is worth reading as an intellectual exercise . . . but not seriously. Thank you. You've been great! I'll be here all week. TWEEDY FELLOW: (to himself after observing his advisor's neck color-shift into angry Irish reds) My work here is done. To the place where food and beverages are provided in exchange for legal tender!

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