tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91936352009-03-31T16:50:43.761-05:00An enigma surrounded by mystery wrapped in flannel.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.comBlogger533125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-38235444226396456652009-03-31T16:50:00.001-05:002009-03-31T16:50:40.480-05:00

The Facebook Aeneid. Pure awesome.

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-28352975272395734212009-02-24T22:35:00.001-05:002009-02-24T22:36:40.436-05:00

Bobby Jindal just invoked hurricane Katrina as an example of when government got in the way.Really?Really!That is all.

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-15283382429876399602009-01-22T13:26:00.003-05:002009-01-22T13:31:30.854-05:00

The 2008 version of Pazz and Jop, the annual best-of list produced by The Village Voice has been published. In this version, they continue their love of the Drive-by-Truckers, and surprisingly place R.E.M. at #25. So I guess this means I wasn't crazy listing Accelerate in my own honorable mentions. Nice to have the guys from Athens sounding relevant (and rocking) again.My own number one? It came

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-27233384548057755602009-01-20T23:09:00.002-05:002009-01-20T23:10:31.231-05:00

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-76203832746074393482009-01-13T12:00:00.000-05:002009-01-13T12:01:03.934-05:00

Top 25 Bushisms.

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-88063172486919076792009-01-06T10:50:00.001-05:002009-01-06T10:51:26.022-05:00

Photographs of abandoned London (Christmas morning).(Hat tip to Kottke).

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-24989474963409954942008-12-25T11:12:00.007-05:002008-12-26T20:34:13.455-05:00

No real introduction, but just the list:Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever AgoThis definitely reflects my predilections this year: a preference for mellow, low-key recordings. The songs are gentle and reflective, and I kept returning to the album again and again throughout the year.Shearwater: RookOK, so I’m in the tank for these guys. Something about music from Austin right now really speaks to me (see

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-58422941443519003962008-12-22T14:33:00.000-05:002008-12-22T14:34:20.994-05:00

More good music news. The Stone Roses are set to re-form.

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-88297089012386790212008-12-18T21:40:00.001-05:002008-12-18T21:40:27.152-05:00

The periodic table of awesomeness.

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-28795072385016459632008-12-16T13:54:00.003-05:002008-12-16T13:55:51.313-05:00

Project management lingo. Unfortunately, I hear a lot of these every day. UPDATE: Now with Bingo!

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-32152370962304697182008-11-25T12:15:00.001-05:002008-11-25T12:17:02.937-05:00

Blur are reforming for rehearsals, and Graham Coxon is included.

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-81398134419128501372008-11-20T16:03:00.003-05:002008-11-20T19:49:12.175-05:00

Variety Playhouse, November 19, 2008It seems like it’s been far too long since I attended a show of any sort, but what a perfect occasion to get back in the habit—Broken Social Scene at the Variety Playhouse. (The tickets may have been the most creative wedding gift we received.)We arrived shortly after the opening act, Land of Talk, took the stage. I had heard of Land of Talk, a three-piece from

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-53229876974082231182008-09-14T00:02:00.004-05:002008-09-14T00:10:19.273-05:00

Rest in peace. Why is it that the brilliant ones are taken so soon. Damnit.I will be reading Infinite Jest again.So yeah, I'm shattered.

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-67689263722838369872008-07-02T12:45:00.002-05:002008-07-02T12:51:12.461-05:00

From the source of 101 20-Minute Appetizers and 101 10-Minute Meals (from which I have used a number of recipes), comes 101 20-Minute Picnic Dishes. Of the dishes he lists (and many of them are quite tasty sounding), I definitely think this one may enter the repertoire:8 COLD PEANUT NOODLES Cook Chinese egg noodles or regular spaghetti. Drain and rinse. Toss with sesame oil, peanut butter (or

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-62336739560729420232008-06-25T23:05:00.005-05:002008-06-25T23:11:51.940-05:00

Sorry for the poems and such for those that aren't interested, but I just had an urge. Of course this is going to look a bit silly and backwards to those without an RSS reader, but oh well. I thought long and not so hard about how to post this since the sequential nature of a blog gives you the latest first, even though there is a clear sequence (in my head). But, in the end, I decided to get

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-6241423577416921812008-06-25T22:56:00.004-05:002008-06-25T23:14:51.814-05:00

ApologyIn addition to Bartram’s Travels, I had many other works in mind when writing this section. One other is Henry David Thoreau, especially his essay, “Walking.” On the highway today, one is certainly a saunterer in one of the senses that Thoreau delineated in his essay “Walking.” All travelers upon the interstate are at the very least saunterers insofar as they are sans terre while

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-36526309952680009042008-06-25T22:54:00.001-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.417-05:00

Muting snow blankets the ground savethe still warm pavement; melting in smallpuddles, it gathers, reflects opacity. Still, only one sound can be heard. A distant highway shears through night's sound-proofing batting, now less pressing: poor conditions inevitablyslow the endless careen of trucks some.I miss the silence's totality that past greeted those in snowstorms:birds

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-10895215880919593482008-06-25T22:53:00.001-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.419-05:00

Driving a darkened highway, desertedthough before midnight, only the brokenlines, jumping into the headlamps’ halo,as if on a dare, and sprinting past,regularly relieve a landscapepainted too heavily in shades of black.Save for the distant red wink of brake lights,those ravenous eyes leering from trucks whosedrivers incessantly chat on radioswith others whom they have never met,and lit billboards

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-21587568527656224822008-06-25T22:51:00.000-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.420-05:00

Returning is a skill not forgotten;the road itself knows the way; sights long seenthe eye notices but still does not see,as they slide past on the road's side,flattening themselves as those who glideto and from the bar on a Friday night.Against window's and mirror's screenwe play our lives, each unfolding scenesubsumed by the foreground as it scrolls past,seen but not heard. Does a river

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-58938143787582043772008-06-25T22:49:00.001-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.421-05:00

The old feeling returns again, risingin the throat, like mountainscrawling slow over the horizonand erupting into the realm of sight;nostalgia riding shotgun beside,traveling Interstate down from the hills,nausea—memories sit heavyon the stomach, coming unbidden.The lighted barrels point the way--bridge workahead. They highlight lost destinations: the dining room cluttered with collapsed boxes,a

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-68684366686219425682008-06-25T22:48:00.000-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.422-05:00

The roadside signs sidle by—skulking paston vision's edge, flattening themselves againstsight's blurred wall, letting cars hurtle on, lestsomething disturb endless monotonyby becoming noticeable—unlike the white lines that crash forever forwardinto speeding cars only to dwindleinto the nonexistence of passedhorizons. The rearview mirror paintsan ever changing portrait of a life in the slow lane

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-34226705534626274412008-06-25T22:44:00.004-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.423-05:00

The highway lies just there, unseen, unheard,and remote, though only bottle-rocketdistance from my desk, one island amida well-carpeted archipelago.Here, muzak cannot replace the music of cars in motion: engines harmonizeand tires play their riffs upon the road below.Each one moves on constrained on that narrowribbon, where such potentialbecomes energy fully kineticas, when realized, journeys’

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-16043485300872999272008-06-25T22:43:00.000-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.424-05:00

The interstate highway, a long time foe,stretching out lives behind until they bendand break, now acts as my closest friend,bearing upon its back my whole life.She rushes through green valleys with black floorstoward me to the rhythm of broken linesthat running by, are reflected in thewindshield and, receding, are seen no more.Arteries of this new long-distance land,the highways quicken that

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-47905280700580976262008-06-25T22:41:00.003-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.426-05:00

The creases in the pavement mark the timefor a race of white lines: marathonsthat are never complete but unheededby spectators in box seats stuck betweenthe horizons—start line and finish tape.The cars, each a penny-ante Eden,are traveling wombs made for insularityand comfort: rarefied air and clinkingbeer bottles container-cooled just behind,a movie continuously playingupon the windshield's ever

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9193635.post-72786513974711884852008-06-25T22:37:00.001-05:002008-06-25T23:02:24.427-05:00

I remember growing up in the valley of Virginia, on the hills that formed the divide between the watersheds of the Shenandoah River to the north and the James River to the south—one of the highest points in the valley proper. On all sides were long limestone ridges, the valleys bottoming out to carry the water on its long course to the Chesapeake Bay, some 200 miles to the east. I could not

Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04447629718018884887noreply@blogger.com0