Sunday, September 30, 2018
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
Gentrification Blues
You move into a working class neighborhood
hipster, you open yr fuckin’ coffee shop
at 6 am. The krauts need their coffee
& they’re on site by seven, bones aching
in the cold or wilting in the heat that is
already saturating the day even by then.
You open at seven, that’s too goddamn late.
I walk into somebody’s beardy bar for lunch
and a fuckin’ fried bologna cost eight bucks,
are you fucking kidding me? I go to the Subway
over by the Krogers for some of that shit on
plastic coated bread, at least it’s better than
the saran wrap shit they got inside the Kroger,
turkey with fuckin’ sprouts on it, whose goddamn
idea was that? Graham next door finally
had to move out a month ago, couldn’t really
make it on his own anymore, the folk at
St. Elizabeth found him a place, and I guess
it’s paid for, I don’t know how, don’t want
to think about it. How you gonna pay somebody
to wipe yr ass when you have to panhandle
yr kin just to make rent? I don’t know how
that works. I don’t know how any of this works
anymore. It’s not like anybody gives a fuck,
no matter what they say, and believe me,
they talk plenty. Nobody gives a single fuck.
Nobody who could make a difference, anyway.
I hear the prices goin’ up in this neighborhood,
but I don’t know the people sellin’, and I don’t
know the people buyin’. Nice enough, I suppose.
Graham’s house ain’t got no new renters yet.
There ain’t no sign up out front. I see people
in and out, I suppose they’re working on the place,
I see some new paint going up through naked
windows, I see a Lowes truck out front with new
stainless steel appliances. Maybe they’re fancying
it up to get a higher class of people, a class of
people who want a condo up the street at the
converted mill, but have to settle with a shotgun
down the street and live in what I suppose they
think is old world glamor until they cash in the
stock portfolio somebody left to them in a will,
then they could move on, and they don’t even
have to sell the shotgun, they just turn it into
one of those temporary rental places, hang some
fancy art on the wall, keep flowers in the fancy
vases, and they charge people ninety dollars a night
to stay there when they come down to do whatever
the fuck it is they do when they come down here, of
course everyone knows about the derby, but that’s
like one week in May, what else do they do? Do they take
the bourbon tours, do they tour the interminable glut
of overpriced beer and hamburgers that fill Goss and
Burnett and Breckenridge like the weedy lawns that took
over this place in the 80s? I don’t fuckin’ know. I do know
that some kids bought Harriet’s place across the street
a couple years ago, and Harriet moved out with nary a
word, not that she had much to say anyway, but now she’s
gone, and I didn’t know ‘til after she left. Then they
painted the place, the Lowes truck came and went,
and after that, there was different people in all the time.
Sometimes it was kids, and they drank too much, and
got too loud, but that’s okay, that’s what kids do, they
drink too much and get too loud, and old people like me
yell at them and tell them to shut the fuck up or we call
the cops, and then they apologize and get quiet for a
little bit, but then get loud again, because they’re drinking
and that’s what kids do when they drink. Other times it
was quiet folk, not kids, that drove four year old Toyotas
and carried maps. Or brochures that looked like maps.
I think Graham’s old place is gonna be like that. They
call them bed and breakfast, I think, but then I thought
that shit was all in Vermont, and had gingham curtains.
The folk that landlorded Graham’s place, they about the
same age as the kids that bought my house last year. Old
Carol was a bitch, and getting her to fix something simple
as a water heater took a resolution from the governor, but
things was always the same. These kids are nice, too nice,
maybe, asking me if I need an extension if I’m a week late,
or asking me if I would like to paint for some cash off the top
of my monthly. I take it, of course, and the house is in better
shape than it ever was. Can’t say the same about myself,
sad to say. I’m 65, and the owner kids are asking me when
I’m going to retire, what my plans are, like they want to
see me basking in the sun, or some such shit. I always
tell them the same thing, that I’m gonna work ‘til I fuckin’ die,
and they fake like they admire it, but I correct ‘em. I tell them
I would quit tomorrow, but I ain’t got a fuckin’ choice. Time was,
a man could move on to the later part of his life when he had the
notion, I suppose, but that time is gone. Graham didn’t stop
until one day, when he couldn’t get out of fucking bed.
Couldn’t even guide his feet to the floor. Now he’s god
knows where, and I can only hope he’s too far gone to worry
about who’s paying for those girls who fluff his pillows and
roll him over so he don’t get bed sores. But anyway, last
week they whitewashed the siding, even though it really
didn’t need it. I think they got plans. I doubt those plans
include me any further than politeness dictates.
If I had to find a new place tomorrow, I don’t know where
I’d go. Not here, anymore, most likely. Not the place
I grew up. Nobody rents here anymore. They turn their
places into little motels.
Last night I stopped at a place on Lydia, ordered a Falls City.
I used to drink Falls City all the time. I tasted it, it tasted
different. “This is good” I tell the beardo behind the bar,
“not like the piss water I grew up on”. New stuff, he says,
the brewery has been revived, local this, local that, blah
blah blah. But it was good beer. Then I get the tab, it’s six
fucking dollars for one beer, and I’m like “for six dollars,
this should be some fucking Don Perignon champagne”.
He gives me a Pabst for three dollars, and the first thing
I’m like this isn’t tasting like it used to either, this tastes
like piss, but it’s a different kind of piss than it used to be.
And three dollars, so okay. I look at the menu, the only thing
I even recognize, besides the fifteen dollar burger, is humus.
I left and got some turkey breast at Subway.
It’s midnight. I don’t want to go to bed, I want another beer.
My legs hurt, my shoulder hurts, my feet hurt, my back hurts,
I can’t sleep for the pain. I don’t want to get up in the morning.
But if I don’t, then they’ll have to find another place for me to
retire to, and I’m not far enough gone to rest in ignorant peace yet.
They planted trees on Goss in front of the Kroger. Time was,
there was plenty of green life in that median, what with the
grass and weeds poking up through the busted concrete. Now,
the concrete is gone, there’s a planter there. What the hell,
the world turns in circles, history repeats itself, someday
the weeds will take over the median again, and no one will care.
Only thing for sure is that I will be long gone by then.
In the meantime, dear sir or madam, is it too much to ask
you to open your goddamn coffee house at six instead of seven?
hipster, you open yr fuckin’ coffee shop
at 6 am. The krauts need their coffee
& they’re on site by seven, bones aching
in the cold or wilting in the heat that is
already saturating the day even by then.
You open at seven, that’s too goddamn late.
I walk into somebody’s beardy bar for lunch
and a fuckin’ fried bologna cost eight bucks,
are you fucking kidding me? I go to the Subway
over by the Krogers for some of that shit on
plastic coated bread, at least it’s better than
the saran wrap shit they got inside the Kroger,
turkey with fuckin’ sprouts on it, whose goddamn
idea was that? Graham next door finally
had to move out a month ago, couldn’t really
make it on his own anymore, the folk at
St. Elizabeth found him a place, and I guess
it’s paid for, I don’t know how, don’t want
to think about it. How you gonna pay somebody
to wipe yr ass when you have to panhandle
yr kin just to make rent? I don’t know how
that works. I don’t know how any of this works
anymore. It’s not like anybody gives a fuck,
no matter what they say, and believe me,
they talk plenty. Nobody gives a single fuck.
Nobody who could make a difference, anyway.
I hear the prices goin’ up in this neighborhood,
but I don’t know the people sellin’, and I don’t
know the people buyin’. Nice enough, I suppose.
Graham’s house ain’t got no new renters yet.
There ain’t no sign up out front. I see people
in and out, I suppose they’re working on the place,
I see some new paint going up through naked
windows, I see a Lowes truck out front with new
stainless steel appliances. Maybe they’re fancying
it up to get a higher class of people, a class of
people who want a condo up the street at the
converted mill, but have to settle with a shotgun
down the street and live in what I suppose they
think is old world glamor until they cash in the
stock portfolio somebody left to them in a will,
then they could move on, and they don’t even
have to sell the shotgun, they just turn it into
one of those temporary rental places, hang some
fancy art on the wall, keep flowers in the fancy
vases, and they charge people ninety dollars a night
to stay there when they come down to do whatever
the fuck it is they do when they come down here, of
course everyone knows about the derby, but that’s
like one week in May, what else do they do? Do they take
the bourbon tours, do they tour the interminable glut
of overpriced beer and hamburgers that fill Goss and
Burnett and Breckenridge like the weedy lawns that took
over this place in the 80s? I don’t fuckin’ know. I do know
that some kids bought Harriet’s place across the street
a couple years ago, and Harriet moved out with nary a
word, not that she had much to say anyway, but now she’s
gone, and I didn’t know ‘til after she left. Then they
painted the place, the Lowes truck came and went,
and after that, there was different people in all the time.
Sometimes it was kids, and they drank too much, and
got too loud, but that’s okay, that’s what kids do, they
drink too much and get too loud, and old people like me
yell at them and tell them to shut the fuck up or we call
the cops, and then they apologize and get quiet for a
little bit, but then get loud again, because they’re drinking
and that’s what kids do when they drink. Other times it
was quiet folk, not kids, that drove four year old Toyotas
and carried maps. Or brochures that looked like maps.
I think Graham’s old place is gonna be like that. They
call them bed and breakfast, I think, but then I thought
that shit was all in Vermont, and had gingham curtains.
The folk that landlorded Graham’s place, they about the
same age as the kids that bought my house last year. Old
Carol was a bitch, and getting her to fix something simple
as a water heater took a resolution from the governor, but
things was always the same. These kids are nice, too nice,
maybe, asking me if I need an extension if I’m a week late,
or asking me if I would like to paint for some cash off the top
of my monthly. I take it, of course, and the house is in better
shape than it ever was. Can’t say the same about myself,
sad to say. I’m 65, and the owner kids are asking me when
I’m going to retire, what my plans are, like they want to
see me basking in the sun, or some such shit. I always
tell them the same thing, that I’m gonna work ‘til I fuckin’ die,
and they fake like they admire it, but I correct ‘em. I tell them
I would quit tomorrow, but I ain’t got a fuckin’ choice. Time was,
a man could move on to the later part of his life when he had the
notion, I suppose, but that time is gone. Graham didn’t stop
until one day, when he couldn’t get out of fucking bed.
Couldn’t even guide his feet to the floor. Now he’s god
knows where, and I can only hope he’s too far gone to worry
about who’s paying for those girls who fluff his pillows and
roll him over so he don’t get bed sores. But anyway, last
week they whitewashed the siding, even though it really
didn’t need it. I think they got plans. I doubt those plans
include me any further than politeness dictates.
If I had to find a new place tomorrow, I don’t know where
I’d go. Not here, anymore, most likely. Not the place
I grew up. Nobody rents here anymore. They turn their
places into little motels.
I used to drink Falls City all the time. I tasted it, it tasted
different. “This is good” I tell the beardo behind the bar,
“not like the piss water I grew up on”. New stuff, he says,
the brewery has been revived, local this, local that, blah
blah blah. But it was good beer. Then I get the tab, it’s six
fucking dollars for one beer, and I’m like “for six dollars,
this should be some fucking Don Perignon champagne”.
He gives me a Pabst for three dollars, and the first thing
I’m like this isn’t tasting like it used to either, this tastes
like piss, but it’s a different kind of piss than it used to be.
And three dollars, so okay. I look at the menu, the only thing
I even recognize, besides the fifteen dollar burger, is humus.
I left and got some turkey breast at Subway.
It’s midnight. I don’t want to go to bed, I want another beer.
My legs hurt, my shoulder hurts, my feet hurt, my back hurts,
I can’t sleep for the pain. I don’t want to get up in the morning.
But if I don’t, then they’ll have to find another place for me to
retire to, and I’m not far enough gone to rest in ignorant peace yet.
They planted trees on Goss in front of the Kroger. Time was,
there was plenty of green life in that median, what with the
grass and weeds poking up through the busted concrete. Now,
the concrete is gone, there’s a planter there. What the hell,
the world turns in circles, history repeats itself, someday
the weeds will take over the median again, and no one will care.
Only thing for sure is that I will be long gone by then.
In the meantime, dear sir or madam, is it too much to ask
you to open your goddamn coffee house at six instead of seven?
Monday, September 17, 2018
Profligate Vinyl: The Beatles (a.k.a. The White Album)
This will be the first of what I hope to be a continuing series on double albums. The double album was a big deal in the pop era pre-compact disc: it was considered an epic and extravagant artistic statement, especially since the pop album itself was a relatively recent evolution from singles when double albums started showing up.
In this series, I will consider a double album in depth, and opine whether or not it would have been better as a single album. To that end, I will present an edited version of the album (in the form of a Spotify playlist). The edited version will be limited to just around 45 minutes, which is the approximate length of the average LP (or, at least, one side of a C-90 cassette).
In this inaugural edition, I will consider the White Album.
* * * * *
"Well I hope I'm smart / But I know I'm not clever / Because deep down inside / I've got a rock -n- roll liver" -- Tony Woollard/TBW!, "Wicker Park Hyena"
All this is a mildly exaggerated way of saying that I am not a Beatles fan (though I am dead serious about Big Star and the Yoko Ono record). Some of the first pop albums I listened to as a kid were copies of the red and blue Beatles greatest hits records, but they never really stuck with me. I don't dislike the band, but apparently not acknowledging them as the pinnacle of rock music is akin to being a hater. I have always been surrounded by The Beatles, but I have only ever owned one Beatles album: The Beatles (a.k.a. the White Album).
Needless to say, not being a Beatles fan, I have had no involvement with THE BEATLES INDUSTRY, so any information imparted here comes solely from the Wikipedia page. You may feel free to correct or add to any observations in the comments, put please be advised that I don't give a shit. Below is a track-by-track consideration, with each song rated on a 1-5 scale:
Side One
Back in the USSR -- This is good Paul! A cheeky little Chuck Berry/Beach Boys pastiche that manages to avoid excessive tinkering and lives in exactly the space it needs to. 4/5
Dear Prudence -- One of the absolute best Beatles songs, one of the best pop songs period. Simple, direct, evocative, dreamy. And good work on the skins by Paul. 5/5
Glass Onion -- The music on this is pretty tight, but the lyrics are self-indulgent bullshit. Who cares, John. 3/5
Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da -- This is bad Paul! Or, per John, Paul's "granny shit"! Such a horrible, glib, facile song, overworked to within inches of its life. This is quintessential Paul, which is not good. Only a little bit better than "We Built This City (On Rock and Roll)". 1/5
Wild Honey Pie -- Seriously, WTF. Inoffensive, but definitely a waste of time. 2/5
The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill -- A musical cock-and-bull story. A waste of time. What's the point? Who cares, John. 2/5
While My Guitar Gently Weeps -- Good George! The execution really makes it, because it is only an OK song in abstract, but it ends up being one of the best songs on the album. Clapton does a reasonable job on this . . . but, if you really want to hear someone shred it, listen to Prince tear it up on the Rock -n- Roll Hall of Fame Harrison tribute. 5/5
Happiness is a Warm Gun -- Bad John! There is reference to a lot of self-satisfied yammering about this song, about how John did some really fancy composing, and how the band worked through complicated music to make it work. All I hear is three good songs squashed into one okay song that is definitely less than the sum of its parts. Stitching three random parts together with no connective tissue or unifying themes doesn't work unless you are John Fucking Cage and randomness is the point. One of my pet peeves, b'god. 3.5/5
INTERLUDE
You might see a theme creeping up already: I am not a Paul McCartney fan. It seems to me that Paul personifies (is the source of?) the glibness and facility that is the worst trait of The Beatles; the degree to which this glibness identifies The Beatles is the degree to which I abhor the band. It's not necessarily that I expect all rock music to be raw and lacerating, or penetrating and wise, or sparkling and revelatory. Simple pop music is just fine, not everything has to be GREAT ART. Beatles proteges Badfinger come immediately to mind: simple, direct, well-crafted songs that are not overly wrought or clever, that live where they should live (see "Back in the USSR" v. "Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da" above). Perhaps it is wrong to make Paul the focus of this problem, but in my (admittedly limited) experience, he seems to be the main culprit.
Side Two
Martha My Dear -- On the tail of the above Paul McCartney rant, we have another good Paul song. "Martha My Dear" is heavily wrought, but all the cleverness is in service of the song, instead of being the reason for the song . . . that is as close as I can come to explaining what "living where it should live" means. 4/5
I'm So Tired -- Simplicity! The somnambulant pace of the song sets the atmosphere with the lyrics riding along - "I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink" - instead of upstaging the song, as is sometimes the case with these over-clever popsters. When John sings "You know I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind", you feel it. 4/5
Blackbird -- How did Paul not fuck this song up? 4/5
Piggies -- Hard to figure out just how this thing went so totally off the rails. How does this end up on the record? 2/5
Rocky Raccoon -- Another major WTF moment. I mean, sometimes shit just goes bad, but how does it keep going after it goes bad? AND HOW DOES IT END UP ON THE RECORD? 1/5
Don't Pass Me By -- A fairly inoffensive little shuffle. Kinda sums up Ringo, don't you think? 2.5/5
Why Don't We Do It in the Road? -- Cheeky. And only a minute and 42 seconds long, which is perhaps its major attribute. 2.5/5
I Will -- Again, brevity is its major attribute, but it is perhaps the most forgettable song ever written. I'm desperately trying to ignore the fact that this little locus of amnesia required 67 FREAKING TAKES to come into being. 2.5/5
Julia -- Find a way to convert the word "Julia" into music. Use the music to provide a vehicle for images to support the word Julia. Don't overthink it. It is what it is, and it is beautiful. 4/5
Rocky Raccoon -- Another major WTF moment. I mean, sometimes shit just goes bad, but how does it keep going after it goes bad? AND HOW DOES IT END UP ON THE RECORD? 1/5
Don't Pass Me By -- A fairly inoffensive little shuffle. Kinda sums up Ringo, don't you think? 2.5/5
Why Don't We Do It in the Road? -- Cheeky. And only a minute and 42 seconds long, which is perhaps its major attribute. 2.5/5
I Will -- Again, brevity is its major attribute, but it is perhaps the most forgettable song ever written. I'm desperately trying to ignore the fact that this little locus of amnesia required 67 FREAKING TAKES to come into being. 2.5/5
Julia -- Find a way to convert the word "Julia" into music. Use the music to provide a vehicle for images to support the word Julia. Don't overthink it. It is what it is, and it is beautiful. 4/5
INTERLUDE
"Clever" is the fulcrum here . . . "clever" is the last thing you want to be as an artist, "clever" explicitly implies artifice, artifice undermines authenticity, and, above all, an artist wants to be "real". BUT: all art involves artifice, so really it's not a matter of ditching artifice, it's a matter of hiding artifice. So, in essence, to be "real", you must cleverly avoid seeming clever. The TBW! lyric quoted above is a case in point: it explicitly derides "clever" music, but itself is clever - the dichotomy between "smart" and "clever", the resulting comment on the authenticity of "art bands", the Lou Reed reference most of the band's fans surely would have caught, the reference to the band's drinking habits - so seemingly takes on an ironic existence on several different levels.
As convoluted as this seems, it is not: clever for the sake of clever is a problem. Clever for the sake of the art is required. If it's not in service of the song, it's just showing off. That is why, for all its specific facility, for all its overt cleverness, "Martha My Dear" is still a wonderful song: all of Paul's hysteria serves the purpose of the song.
Side Three
Birthday -- Just a fun little ripper. Fun! Written and recorded in one night! Could have been about 55 seconds shorter, though. 3.5/5
Yer Blues -- This is probably the place to confess I might be giving John the benefit of the doubt on these blues songs. If not on "I'm So Tired", then definitely here. On the other hand, I think this thing rocks. 3.5/5
Mother Nature's Son -- I mean, whatever. 3/5
Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey -- Another raver, the velocity of the song keeping the lyrics from becoming too ponderous. What's it about? Who cares? One of those pop songs that sprays disconnected images, and does so with joy. That's worth something. 4/5
Sexy Sadie -- John is MAD! The fact that he lets the lyrics lie there naked helps the song . . . again, hide the artifice, only this time in plain sight. 3.5/5
Helter Skelter -- Apparently, Paul's answer to The Who's "I Can See For Miles", which Townshend claimed was the nastiest, dirtiest song recorded at the time. As always, when Paul keeps it simple, good things happen: all he wanted was loud and psychotic, and that's what he got. Glorious was simply a byproduct. 5/5
Long, Long, Long -- Paul's organ and Ringo's drums-as-a-melodic-instrument lend a great in-between feel to this song: tending to the ethereal, but keeping the song earthbound. It also gives an indeterminate cast to the lyrics - is it about God? or a woman? - that positions it tensely between the immanent and transcendent, a tension which makes it even better than if you go with Harrison's simple explanation that it's about God. Kids, never trust the artist. 5/5
INTERLUDE
I perhaps do give John a benefit of the doubt that I do not give Paul. I do not consider him infallible by any stretch of the imagination, but without his contributions, there would be little of The Beatles for me to hold on to. "Yer Blues" is the point where that comes to a head: I really can't find any concrete reason that the song song stands out over, say, "Don't Pass Me By", or "Why Don't We Do It in the Road", but to me it clearly does. Heretofore I have spent a lot of time talking about songs and artifice, without really talking much about performance . . . and so it is with The Beatles overall. Other than Paul's bass chops, we really don't talk about The Beatles as musicians: we think of Ringo as a competent drummer in spite of his limitations, we think of George as a competent guitarist, we think of all of them as effective, if unspectacular, singers.
I would make a stronger case for John. One of my favorite (top 5!) Beatles songs has always been the B-side of "Get Back", "Don't Let Me Down". Listening to it again, the arrangement and songcraft are superb, but it is John's vocals (along with Billy Preston's electric piano!) that really make the song. I think John's performances are frequently like that: combined with the direct simplicity of most of his compositions, his vocals and attack are more than effective, they are raw, emotional, and vital.
Side Four
Revolution 1 -- First, I like the single version better, though this is not bad. Second, I'm not real comfortable about the lyrics, which (à la The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again") sound like bourgeois retrenchment for a bunch of newly rich white English boys. Could be wrong about that, but I don't think so. 3/5
Honey Pie -- What is it with this half-assed music hall bullshit? 1.5/5
Savoy Truffle -- Like cheap American chocolate, an overly sweet confection that ends up being empty calories. 3/5
Cry Baby Cry -- A toss off with a catchy chorus. Meh. 3/5
Revolution 9 -- Is it any good? Who knows? Who cares? IT'S AN 8+ MINUTE TAPE COLLAGE IN THE MIDDLE OF A BEATLES RECORD! THIS ISN'T SOME HALF-ASSED BULLSHIT, THIS IS WHOLE-ASSED FUCKERY! 5/5! For what it's worth, I listen to a lot of stuff like this, and it's OK at best: an uncomfortable middle ground between Cage's randomness and Stockhausen's conceptual approach, it ends up falling short on both counts. On its own, I would give it a 2/5. In the context of a Beatles record, I will stick with 5/5. Let's go with 3/5.
Good Night -- A lullaby. Nothing more, nothing less. Gets a little bump for Ringo's vocals. 3/5
AN ACCOUNTING
I've already alluded to the fact that the White Album is the only Beatles record I've ever owned. Even then, I didn't own it when I listened to it in high school (I listened to it with my good friend John), finally buying a used cassette copy in the early 80s when I was in college. By the late 80s I had sold it off to buy some new records, and lived without it until just a couple weeks ago. I have always kept an eye open for a used copy, but with the recent vinyl boom, used copies run around $45, so I just ponied up for a new pressing at $35. After the time I've spent with the album for the purposes of this discussion, I will likely file it into my record stacks, and who knows when I will pull it out again.
Also alluded to is the idea that pop/rock double studio albums were generally considered to be indulgences, and frequently had to account for their extravagance. The Beatles clearly was indulgent by anybody's standards: by my accounting, the average rating is 3.18 out of 5 . . . this, for a record that is generally considered to be one of the greatest of the rock era, in spite of the fact that virtually everyone who discusses it acknowledges it to be full of filler (though, tellingly, there is a lot of disagreement about exactly what songs on the album constitute filler).
Is it better as a single album? Below is my edit of the album. I have not consulted any lists or ratings for this edit, it is based purely on my own accounting. It has been slightly re-sequenced, but generally follows the sequence of the original. So, you tell me: is this better?
It's hard to deny the edit slams. It goes from being a rambling, chaotic mess to being tight as hell. Still, for my part, I'm rather fond of big sloppy messes (I am, perhaps, one of the very few who will defend The Clash's Sandinista to the bitter end). As chaotic as this is, it still seems of a piece, and it doesn't pay to hack it down. Too clever by at least half, there is still enough here to overcome the almost Olympian self-indulgence. Just don't ask me to spend this much time with any other Beatles albums, OK?
Friday, September 14, 2018
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
from Eleven Portraits of John McCain Rendered in the Manner of Still Lifes of Vegetables and Sides of Beef
II.
(rustling
of umbrellas and expensive overcoats)
(occasional
coughs and sniffles)
(leather
soles clicking up to the lectern)
(cough,
throat clears)
“He
wasn’t as bad as others”
(a
stifled sob from the gallery)
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