This is my blogchalk:
United States, North Carolina, Carrboro, English, Paul, Male, 56-60, All Music, All Food.

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Monday, May 23, 2005

“I'm working diligently to become a better accordion player, too, which seems to fit my mood. I reject the synthetic, pseudo-music of popular culture and embrace the hard work of learning the language of music the old-fashioned way. Do-it-yourself was never so sweet or satisfying. Big Brother can't take that away from me. Yah -- do yer undercover FBI investigation on THIS... squeezin bellows and makin a joyful noise. Fug you.”   I’m with Fiona on this point. The time that used to go into this blog now goes into whipping through scales on The Telecaster. As I’ve said before, I play no music – except occasionally inspired rips of “Soldier’s Joy” and “Red-haired Boy.” No, I’m not interested in bluegrass or folk. Listening, I like Los Hombres Calientes and The Funky Meters right now, anything New Orleans, even Fats Domino, but I don’t particularly want to play that stuff even if I could. It’s difficult to get inspired by apathy but there is always a mechanical aspect to playing an instrument that is more like jogging than dancing, hearing your own footsteps hit the pavement and trying to analyze each one on the fly. The political climate out there isn’t quite as depressing as it was when Nixon, The “Peace” Candidate, got re-elected in 1972 (and proceeded to bomb the fuck out of Hanoi in Christmas of that year), but it’s pretty dismal when Don Rumsfeld still has job security and Michael Isikoff may lose his because he didn’t dot the “i” and cross the “t” in “shithead.” That’s when it’s time for a new radio station. If you can’t find one, make your own. This too will pass.   9:23:17 PM    comment []

Twyla’s been pissed because this hasn’t become a cat blog, not even on Friday. She’s mastered all the thespian arts and can run the entire gamut of cat emotions faster than an auditioning theater major. I snapped this photo right after we heard the news that a coalition of moderate Senators struck a compromise to avoid what the evil people (choose your own side) called the “nuclear option.” Twyla had trouble pronouncing that, so she referred to it as the “Rottweiler Option” (an expression she learned as a dumpster kitten). You can tell she’s excited it didn’t happen.     8:40:21 PM    comment []