quandary limn plenary synecdoche*

*Those are the words of the day over the last few days, according to a website devoted to such things.

oo la la

Early morning reverie, stock experience: picked up from Warehouse 2 on the East Bank of Commonplace, north of What Have You. Coffee, cloud streaks cognizable in the early morning dark that accompanies or elicits the early morning reverie.

Death Dream, idiosyncratic but with generic symbols: a lakehouse scene, with a floating dock on the upper right hand of the frame on which sat a marijuana plant and a Radio Raheem style boombox. Waves lapped against the neighbors’ dock; neighbor in those preppie shoes, sockless, the ones I associate with the East Coast and sailing. This house set back against a hill, looks down on neighbors’ dock and floating dock. My uncle – the one who never wears jeans, only slacks – is discussing the death around which the dream seems to order itself.

Stock photo:

catfish appearing to devour bald guys' head. If you were that catfish, wouldn't you
try to make what seems to be, be?

You smell like the consequence of passion

1.

Capital gains taxes on the idea of anatomical evolution are
bound to grow. Did you hear about the dude who ran the 4.24
40 at the combine, then repped out 225 63 times? you will.

Sportswriters who still want their ballplayers to steal
smokes in the dugout a la kruk dykstra and the boys are
going to dislike most of the 21st century. Rick Reilly
will continue to concentrate on the sociological flotsam
that attaches itself to unbeaten high school teams from
places like Edina, MN and Enigma, GA and Miles City, MT,
and high school wrestling coaches from New Jersey with
cauliflower ears and ambivalent notions about "progress"
will continue to flog their charges down two weight classes
on pure sadistic principle.

And so evolution walks hand in hand with constancy, which
is partly why we still watch. I just want to say a thing:
Ballesteros has a brain tumor. he once defeated the flat
artlessness of fairways and greens and showed us something
about fantasies of escape and "par" in the process. some
4s are not only better than other 4s, some 4s are better
than there more pedestrian 3s.





2.

Oxford Comma is really based on an Andrew WK song. Andrew
Bird, fly away. Please. Or stop insinuating yourself on
her playlist when I happen to be around.

the new yorker's take on the era in which we live

From Sasha Frere-Jones article on Timbaland:

There is a long list of fervid, breathtaking productions from the nineties and the early two thousands, many for rappers and vocalists who barely made it into the public consciousness. (Ms. Jade? Playa?)

oleander in bloom, amplified in an unlit room

Coffee and cigarettes and slack-jawed fatigue, minus the formal dress. Is this painting sad? Is this an age where it makes sense to ask if a painting is sad?
I still haven't heard anyone discuss, with necessary seriousness, what this age
is. Is it just the first decade of a new century/millennium? if so, how is it
"just" that? is it, phonetically, the ots (rhymes with tots or - wait for it -
robots)?

I think this painting is sad, not because of the people in it, but because of the
perspective implied: someone is looking in on the scene, presumably from a slight
distance. And that someone is not you the viewer, nor is it Hopper the painter.
Not a nobody, but a no one, occupies that perspective. If that makes sense.

This doesn't reach the second question - whether it even makes sense to posit that
a given painting is sad - which must be tabled out of sheer inaccessibility to the
scope of the question.


Andy was right. Panda Bear is infectious. But you have to (get to?) sift through
some noise that separates one hook from the next. The metaphorical cachet of this
process boggles.