2 billion mouse rampage in China

Saw this on the news the other day, and so naturally youtube has it.

So far they’ve killed a couple million (90 tonnes) of mice. It doesn’t seem to be making a dent.


Man, it was a little scary how much difference a little bit of sunshine made to my mood today.

Not digging the cold and grey.

in which we are overrun by music geeking

not feeling the blogging lately.
not a lot to say
kind of introverted, self absorbed, and figuring some shit out.

in complete navel gazing news. the god machine have risen in recent months from an honourable first place second place plateaux to an outright first position in bands i love, easing the gathering out of their position of eminence unchallenged these last however many years. this has a lot to do with playing guitar and singing and thinking about what i would enjoy doing. a different way of approaching music. i am planning to restring my electro-acoustic and write some singer-songwritery songs.

and in further navel gazing musical obscurity of probable interest only to me, i discovered today that Baxter, a band and album mysteriously entering my life from Sweden, about whom nothing much could be known, had in fact released a second album, which i must acquire. and with the magic of interweb, less than 24 hours later, i have it. way different.

i have no real idea why i blog any more

Can you dig it?

Watched the ultimate directors cut of The Warriors the other night. Suddenly “Can you dig it” by PWEI makes totally different sense. Apparently the film was based on Sol Yurick’s first novel. I figure there would be more going on the book, but the stripped back story worked to full filmic advantage, and it is pretty cool. Nah. It’s way cool, in a teenage boy kind of way. In a parallel future world a street gang has to fight its away across New York, with every other gang out to get them, riffing off ancient greek heroic tales.

Check it out.

spambot cut ups

Someone else has probably already noticed this, but the spambots are the true inheritors of the Burroughs/Gysin/Tzara cut-up technique.

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Well. Maybe.

Henry Rollins: How I Protest the War

Man, this is awesome, gut-wrenching, startling and overwhelmingly humane. Henry Rollins doing spoken word in Israel. Just watch it.


Found it via this interview with Rollins, wherein he talks about visiting Iran, commercialism, culture, and more. It’s been a while since I plugged into Rollins-land. He’s as angry and on to it as ever, but older and wiser.

Wailing for Mandy

Seventeen years.

Pretty good for a cat, so they say.

But still too soon to say goodbye.

Such a gentle creature. Not a hunter. Never saw her kill. Almost ornamental.

I always felt guilty about separating her from her sibling, who looked so lost when she was placed in a new cage of unfamliar kittens, her sister taken.

In her early years she earned the middle name “socks”, rolled up socks being a favourite toy.

She looks like she is made of bone china. A frail and beautiful cameo. Never sat on knees. Didn’t like to be held, either, but she loved to stay close. She would sit on the arms of chairs. She would sleep on the bed, purring and purring. How she purred!

She was like the snooze function of an alarm clock in reverse. A single touch would generate minutes of purring. Through long insomniac teenage nights she would keep vigil and company, responding to touch, gentle breath and hum in the night.

She was hard to get close to. Nothing could be forced upon her. When she wanted affection, she would circle and trill. You had to give chase. A couple of pats and she was away again, looking over her shoulder and calling you on. Finally she would assent to love, purring and bunting. She especially liked it when I took off my glasses, so she could nuzzle into the socket of my eye.

Leaving her was hard; she looked so bereft when I moved out, but there was no way to take her with me. And when I visited she was palpably overjoyed, lining up and demanding attention, receiving it in abundance.

In her later years she would sleep under the covers by my head, with her head poking out for air.

In her later years she ventured outside, having outlived the boy cats she shared the house with, who would chase her back in. It was a joy to watch her on the lawn in the sun, shining in the sunlight, rolling around in some weeds whose scent did something special for her.

In her later years she grew frailer and consented to be held, snuggling in for warmth.

In her later years she needed grooming and learned to love the steel comb, lining up in the spots she would accept; the arm of a chair, the edge of a bed. She needed the freedom to leave, disliking restriction. She looked so much better afterwards; a mostly white cat tending to brown discoloration is a sad sight indeed. Great mounds of fur came off. How many handfuls? How long will your fur remain in my clothes, the mattress and the carpet?

How long does memory last, and love?

Well. A cat post. Is officially blog now.

A beautiful media moment

MSNBC’s Mika Brzezinski on air refusing to lead with Paris Hilton as news, feeling that Iraq and other things mattered more. Beautiful, funny and surreal television. Rock on, Mika!


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