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Last night I was sprinkled liberally with the sweat of one Samuel T. Herring, Pop Idol. Including one splash right in the eye at that first air-punching moment during “Seasons” (I shut my eyes for the second one).

If you have only seen that Letterman performance you have no idea what this guy’s moves are like. I won’t even describe it as a tip of the iceberg thing. My idea before the show of what he’s capable of was like an ice cube chipped from the Ross Ice Shelf of the real honest-to-god in-person experience. Not only can he sing (oh my goodness, he can sing), but he can do it while pogoing for an entire verse, song after song? Hurling himself around on the floor? Dancing … indescribably.

Good luck watching the bassist’s hands with THAT going on right in front of your face. I could barely spare the attention to notice that touring drummer Michael Lowry belongs to the Jon Wurster I Am Having The Greatest Time On Earth Playing These Drums School Of Percussion.1

I usually keep my phone in my pocket quite religiously at shows, but during the last encore last night I suddenly really wanted a memento. The picture above is what happens when I hold my phone at a weird angle down below my waist somewhere and press a button and hope for the best.

What a night. What a life-affirming, inspiring night.



I’m in the selfie he took from the stage at the end of the night, but what happens on Instagram stays on Instagram. ↩

Last night I was sprinkled liberally with the sweat of one Samuel T. Herring, Pop Idol. Including one splash right in the eye at that first air-punching moment during “Seasons” (I shut my eyes for the second one).

If you have only seen that Letterman performance you have no idea what this guy’s moves are like. I won’t even describe it as a tip of the iceberg thing. My idea before the show of what he’s capable of was like an ice cube chipped from the Ross Ice Shelf of the real honest-to-god in-person experience. Not only can he sing (oh my goodness, he can sing), but he can do it while pogoing for an entire verse, song after song? Hurling himself around on the floor? Dancing … indescribably.

Good luck watching the bassist’s hands with THAT going on right in front of your face. I could barely spare the attention to notice that touring drummer Michael Lowry belongs to the Jon Wurster I Am Having The Greatest Time On Earth Playing These Drums School Of Percussion.1

I usually keep my phone in my pocket quite religiously at shows, but during the last encore last night I suddenly really wanted a memento. The picture above is what happens when I hold my phone at a weird angle down below my waist somewhere and press a button and hope for the best.

What a night. What a life-affirming, inspiring night.


  1. I’m in the selfie he took from the stage at the end of the night, but what happens on Instagram stays on Instagram. 

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I think I want to change my Tumblr URL but I don’t know what to.

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One of these things is not like the others.

Two of the three that are like the others, I had to add to Goodreads manually. Poor F. S. Flint, you were so sad and now the internet doesn’t care about you.

One of these things is not like the others.

Two of the three that are like the others, I had to add to Goodreads manually. Poor F. S. Flint, you were so sad and now the internet doesn’t care about you.

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batmansymbol:

batmansymbol:

if it’s late enough and you’re lonely enough, the carly rae jepsen lyric “before you came into my life i missed you so bad” starts seeming increasingly deep and emotionally complex

3:02 AM and this fucking lyric looks like fucking nietzsche

stare into the abyss and the abyss will call you maybe

heck yes

(via becausegoodbye)

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'Eau-forte', F. S. Flint

On black bare trees a stale cream moon
Hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds.

Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low,
Tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram.

Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square ;
And round the bend six bullocks come.

A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides
Their clattering feet—
       their clattering feet !
            to the slaughterhouse.

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June.

June.

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"Go in fear of abstractions. Don’t retell in mediocre verse what has already been done in good prose. Don’t think any intelligent person is going to be deceived when you try to shirk all the difficulties of the unspeakably difficult art of good prose by chopping your composition into line lengths."

Ezra Pound.

I appreciate a lot of what he has to say about poetry but he was an awful anti-Semitic fascist in a not at all hyperbolic sense and it makes me so mad.

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"It is small wonder that Imagist poetry should be incomprehensible to men whose sole touchstone for art is the literature of one country for a period of four centuries."

— From the preface to Some Imagist Poets 1916.

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'You Are Like the Realistic Product of an Idealistic Search for Gold at the Foot of the Rainbow', Marianne Moore

Hid by the august foliage and fruit
  of the grape vine,
  twine
     your anatomy
       round the pruned and polished stem,
             chameleon.
             Fire laid upon
       an emerald as long as
      the Dark King's massy
    one,
could not snap the spectrum up for food
  as you have done.
Audio

Blueline Medic – Precious Things

I’ve been sad in the past that, despite “Making the Noveau Riche” being such a great, great song, I never got into any of Blueline Medic’s other stuff.

Thanks to Tori Amos I now have two songs of theirs that I like. Well, one and a half, I guess.

(Kind of sad they didn’t throw caution to the wind and go for those high vocal notes, but I suppose one can’t have everything.)