Monthly Archives: October 2019

Happy Amateur Hour, rookies.   Now get yer damn kids of my lawn…I have whiskey to attend to just now.

N.P.: “The Chain” – Tantric

“No time for love, Dr. Jones.”

Oh man, I’m busy, dear reader.  Good lord.  I’m so busy, I don’t even have time to tell you how busy I am.

Today was remarkable in many ways.  I was a fan of today.

N.P.: “Like I Should” – Craig Robinson

I find it exceedingly strange that people are still referring to contemporary years as “two thousand and whatever.”   I mean, I figured it would be a few years of that weirdness at the turn of the century, and things would sort of relax into “Twenty whatever.”  When reading early writings from the previous 2 centuries, the formality of writers calling the years “Nineteen hundred and eighteen” is always comical. It sounds as if they were using an abacus to figure out what year it was.   But it typically didn’t take too long before they were just calling it “Nineteen fourteen” or whatever.  But we’re almost a quarter of the way through our own dreadful century and people are still referring to the present year as “two thousand nineteen.”  I’m hopeful that because next year’s number will match the century number, people will see/hear the awkward asymmetrical bulkiness of saying “Two thousand twenty” and finally shift to sleeker, sexier, symmetrical “twenty twenty.”  Of course, looking to the present generation of American speakers who even still continue to stupidly and compulsively bleat the insipid “I know, right?” for any kind of linguistic grace will only result in crushing disappointment.

I’m just so over it.  I can’t even.

N.P.: “Breathless” – Shankar Mahadevan

I have exactly nothing to say tonight, dear reader.  Not there there isn’t a lot on my mind…I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t…and not that I don’t have a lot to say.  But there’s nothing I can really say if I plan on getting any sleep.

Anyway, I just thought I’d pop in and say hey.  So, hey.

N.P.: “The Shame of Life” – Butthole Surfers

Happy Diwali, dear reader.

It is not unusual for me to read multiple published, allegedly edited, and definitely paid-for articles every day with basic grammatical and usage errors so egregious as to keep them from passing my most basic ESL composition class.  Which is depressing, but not quite as depressing as the fact that no one apparently notices.  Editorial in-boxes are not being flooded with vociferous complaints demanding better.  Nobody gives a shit.  The errors that I read are the same I hear made constantly by the herd who have no natural ear for the music of the language and learned their bastardized verbal perversions from inordinately-assed Armenians on reality TV.  Reading the same errors in news articles confirms their erroneous notions of grammatical competence (of course I am giving the herd rather a lot of credit here, assuming they spend any part of their vapid days actually reading anything).  It’s enough to drive a linguistically sensitive guy like me to drink.  Incidentally, it’s about time for a new desk whiskey.  Jack Fire can be quite nice this time of year, with its icy nights.

N.P.: “Empty Room” – Prince

It warms my heart to hear of the violent death of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.  Fuck that guy.  May he burn eternally.

N.P.: “Get Your Body Beat” – Combichrist

What a ludicrously long day.  Started before 0500 and is still going strong.  Well, I don’t know how strong it is, but it’s certainly still going.

N.P.: “Strangletage” – Umphrey’s McGee

Interesting times, dear reader.  And busy…my god.  I suspect there are world leaders who are less pressed for time than I am these days.

Gotta write.  Gotta sleep.

N.P.: “Rowboat” – Johnny Cash