EVERY DAY SHE MAKES A NEW BLUE DOG is based on a dream I had in July 2007 about another world, called a’,i, and a woman there who makes a new blue dog every day. There was something broken in the making of a’,i, which throws everything else off. In the dream I wrote novels about it, in waking life, this serial. Because of time constraints, the entries to the serial are likely to be very erratic. If you write and request an episode, however, I will be sure and post one. If there is something in particular you would like me to include or consider in an episode, please say so.
If I continue blogging I will lose my job. There’s a fascinating piece up at the Utne Reader blog about Flaubert’s Parrot and the pleasures of “aimless reading.” Just kidding: I realize it’s solipsistic and bad form to pointlessly link from your own blog to a blog that mentions your blog just to show people that your blog is being linked to. But: what the hell? How did this wonderful Utne Reader intern find Good Jobbbbb (neé The Bounty Farmer)? And: Is it chauvinistic or otherwise bad to say that the Utne Blog’s contributors photo is the precise copy, with no modifications, of this blog’s imagined, ideal readership?
Hopefully this cryptosexist, egomaniacal blog post will destroy the perceived blogospheric ascendency that has touched my soft brain and I’ll be able to seamlessly return to posting unfilmable hardcore teleplays for a treasured handful of friends and coworkers.
- “Robert Warshow wrote, ‘A man goes to the movies. The critic must be honest enough to admit that he is that man.'”
- This is a good band, and a good blog:”when they arrived disheveled and stoned and impossibly old in a rental sedan (having driven from Chicago to play two shows on the West Coast), we were all in awe. Watching them stumble onstage, looking for all the world like post-apocalyptic scarecrows in wraparound sunglasses and tattered jeans and running shoes, wreathed in dope smoke, none of us had any idea what to expect; they hassled the harried soundperson for a bit, smoked a joint, demanded beer ‘without fruit in it’ (code for Budweiser or Pabst, anything but the microbrew on offer), and launched into one of the most alarming, psyche-altering sets of music my young self had ever seen.”
(fanks to T.McD)
- Tomorrow, Saturday Oct 17: you comin to Home Movie Day?
When visiting Jose Saramago’s blog,
Make sure your speakers are on!
Just heard this song, liked it. Georgia, 1978. If the download doesn’t work anymore, send me an email or something and I’ll send it to you. Not a big deal, just a mellow download. THINK OF IT AS A SNACK. Also I added the Siltbreeze Records founder’s blog to the blogroll at left because it’s a great source of news related to the shit-smeared dust-covered pop music I like. This post is set to ‘private’
Final shit-smeared nota bene: I’ve received emails like this one before, but only from Americans. I would have preferred a Briton; their vituperative sputter is so much better.
This happens sometimes: in the office on the weekend to work, but instead I’m just sloughing hours kicking around the moors of the internet, mournfully carrying around an undigested burrito, moaning. Unlike the yearbook editor (see below), I’m not pretending to get anything done. Though I am using up valuable office-sanity points. I should be finding marijuana and going to see a big-budget film, or reading Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland, or Mary Robison’s Why Did I Ever, or Deb Olin Unferth’s Vacation. It’s carnival on Mission St. today. I was trapped at a picnic table at Taqueria Cancun by seven recent high-school graduates. Trying hard to read the newspaper as they discussed Medjool, Burritos, Wikipedia, summer jobs.
Here’s my shopping list:
- diced tomatoes
- peanut butter
- three onions
- garlic [accidentally listed twice — ed]
Thanks so much for “reading this far.” It really means a lot to me that you’re actually/somehow willing to follow me down– and I do mean down — into the horrid/torrid/florid/boréd banalities of this adorable little life I lead!
I hadn’t been to Evany’s blog in a while. It makes me want to be adopted by her and Marco as a pet so I can lie on the carpet and be fed and shit in Marbles’s litterbox. Or maybe it makes me feel like that’s already happened. Note to self: revise this paragraph so I can link to Evany’s blog without sounding so creepy.
Yesterday I went to the San Francisco Birth & Baby Fair with “mcmüller” and “the wifest.” I felt very much like their forthcoming child’s gay uncle, walking three paces behind, destroying awkward eye-contact with a long string of puzzled-seeming vendors. mcm brought a tape recorder to help me feel more gonzo and less my two dads. I conducted a couple awkward interviews. I took a few notes. Gonzo. “Everything I make ends up being cute, so I figured I might as well make stuff for babies,” said a designer of “South Parky” nursery hangings. A midwife at a birthing center: “[mutual acquaintance who just had a baby] said I’m a punk-rock midwife — but that’s the last thing I am.” Later that day back in the Mission I saw that same mutual acquaintance standing on the curb, stooping down to make out with his wife who was seated in the passenger seat of his parked car while breastfeeding their infant daughter. I tried to walk by, smiling an awkward “Ah, that’s probably nice” smile, but he called me over. Turns out the midwife is hiphop, not punk. There’s a sixty percent chance that some baby fair–related multimedia will show up at crude futures in the next few days.
After the Baby Fair we saw the SFAI MFA Graduate Exhibition, also at Fort Mason, a complete surprise and its last day up. All the ridiculous installations were right up front, so you walked in immediately assaulted by haunted house howls and eviscerated bulls and other chattering gorey crap, but the rest of the giant pavillion had some good stuff. A highlight was — well, I can’t find any record of the dude on SFAI’s site. I have a postcard at home. Some fun, derivative paintings. Some disingenuous, funny conceptual art. Some great watercolor self-portraits of a busty MFA in her underwear messily eating sweets.