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The Public Blogging of Pomosexuality, Homotextuality, Homophobiaphilia, and Drear Theory (aka Career Theory) [aka Gay4Pay]. We also read the Corner and OpJournal so the right buttock will be punished as well.
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I like Salon, not enough to pay a rusty dime to read it, but I'll click through the deadbeat obstacle course once a month to earn a free daypass, the red badge of cheapskate. Salon's hairburner-in-chief, David Talbot, is resigning today. He's not much of a writer himself, I mean he's a bad writer, but he was a great pep squad captain and he hired people who wrote better than he did. If I owned stock in Salon I'd crawl across a burning wasteland to bite his toes off. Since I don't I feel free to say, "Good for you, Mr Talbot."
Talbot's trademark weakness is on display in the last paragraph of the NYT's story on his departure:
"I still feel this whole messianic vision," he said. "At its best, Salon is not only progressive and crusading, but also running stories about sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. A lot of that joyful spirit has been trashed by recent events, and I think Salon will play a role in reviving it."
Way too vernac, and hackneyed vernac at that. That S, D and R&R trope, in wearisome partic, is nearly thirty years a'moldering. It is a sure sign of no voluptuaries anywhere in the vicin. It is the best friend chastity, sobriety and silence ever had.
Add to my glacially accruing list of the greatest singles, Don't Disturb This Groove by The System. Spring begins for me every year on the first warm day after Valentines Day that I hear that song on the radio, as I always inevitably do. Even the most suffocating urban formats will find room for that record a few times a year. Those few times most likely clustered around each specific radio market's spring-awakening thaw. It am the breeze, a balmy, exhilarating, blossom-scented one.
Pay attention are you listening
You're my favorite girl
Excuse me for the moment
I'm in another world
(On a mountain) by a fountain
Flowers blooming everywhere
With venus and cupid
The picture's very clear
The perilous Sean Kinsell has written lately (here and here) about the It's Me scam which is currently Big In Japan. Ratbastard phone bank operators prey on oldsters by (most typically) calling up and pretending to be their grandchildren in trouble and pleading for emergency cash help to be deposited in their bank accounts (ok honorable grandma, write this number down.) Sean thinks there are reasons that the Japanese are particularly susceptible to this fraud, the flip side of respect the young must show elders is the material payback the elders owe the kids, it makes them easy marks for a sob story in young voice. I must be part elderly-Japanese.
But It's Me is a powerful magic spell in its own right, an all-purpose open sesame, the ur social-engineering hack. Savvy tricksters (cops among them) know that it can get doors opened that otherwise would stay closed if those inside knew who the me on the other side really was.
I've noted here before the greatness of Todd Rundgren's Hello, It's Me--its genius as a title and the first line of a song. Rundgren took the hidden-in-plain-sight, intimate prelude to a hundred million phone calls a day, framed it and hung it on the wall. There must be other stealth phrases like it, spoken all the time but somehow hardly ever remembered or celebrated. I want to find me another. Though I suspect Todd R. has already found the best, most profound one.