REMORA

1) Thanks go, as usual, to the Gaijin, who was, as usual, the only one of you sons of bitches who could be bothered to slap a Jimi Hendrix CD into the tray and burn that song for us. The man has a heart of solid gold and is willing to deploy it at any instant. The rest of you? You make us wonder why we are knocking ourselves out for you. None of you even thought to mention that you would give us some Jimi if only you had some, or that you were maybe too busy, or dropped a line to offer alternative suggestions for healing. We were in distress, and you? You did nothing. And yet you keep popping in here, day after day, taking taking taking. Rubbing your filthy little lazy eyes all over our pixels, helping yourselves to the fruits of our labours. I hope you are all ashamed of your bad little selves.

1.5) With that out of the way, let us just mention that the Jimi was indeed the cure for our deep malaise. It was a pure drink of water to a drowning man. It was a deep drop of visine to our red and itchy third eye. If you are unfamiliar with Third Stone From the Sun, we recommend you track it down right now. We do not, however, recommend you come crying to us for it. Fuckers.

2) Like most of you, we have always assumed that “moratorium” was rooted in some old language’s word for death. You know, Morte, Muerte, Mortal etc. etc. But we were tightened up this morning by our A.Word.A.Day list, which tells us that the word, like demur, is in fact based on mora, which was latin for delay. And, they tell us, a Remora is a kind of fish that sucks itself onto the hulls of boats and other fish and causes them delay. The Remora is, literally, a drag.

3) Which leads us to the moratorium on Mango Pudding Blues posts that will commence immediately. We are embarking on a secret journey. A journey into the past! Expect a four-to-seven day delay, which may be a drag to you, but then, you have it coming. Go read Fireland or something instead.

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HELP ME

A slight gasteroenterological discomfort. An itching in my phantom limb. An increasing sense of fissures appearing in the thin crust that separates the present from the future. A buildup of phlegm. I need you. Seriously. There is only one hope for a cure: I need to hear Jimi Hendrix’s Third Stone From the Sun posthaste. Can one of you darlings um “lend” me a recording of that? On MP3? ASAP? SVP?

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IF YOU ONLY KNEW

If you only knew the stuff I’m putting into my furnace. The fuel I’m burning at my core. The composition of the rods I’m feeding to the reactor. The atoms in my supercollider. If you could only even slightly grasp a puny portion of the power I’m producing, you’d be weeping. Your mother would be weeping. Your ancestors back in time would be weeping. Shakespeare. Sinatra. The Sex Pistols. Fractals. Buddha. Latin percussion. Chipotle peppers. Systems music. Drag queens. Concrete poetry. New York City. Buddy Holly. Wabi-Sabi. Wasabi. Pavarotti. Pecorino. Dean & Deluca. Red-hot haiku. The Concorde parked on the tarmac in Barbados. You see? Parachutes. Peanut sauce. Pesto. Havarti. I-80. Adobe Photoshop. Pantone 390. Halftones. Hi-tones. Trombones. I-threes. Bean burritos. Pink wine. Acufine. 1979. And, mostly, just lately, Eunoia by Christian Bök and Maitreya: The Future Buddha by David Parsons.

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