Good Music Friday — Dark End Of The Street Edition

This is going to be another short one, because it’s 88 degrees outside and this is the first time I’m walking out of the office while it’s still daylight in a month.
So fuck yeah.
The third and final debate took place this week, and while it was more rambling evasions from CUNTON, the press have unanimously declared her PERPETUAL WINNER OF ALL TIME, so take that you motherfucking deplorables. But, she did somehow survive all three debates without succumbing to her various injuries and diseases and dementias, so sure, give her the W. Following the conclusion of the last debate, she lamented that she wouldn’t be able to take any more naps due to the increasing presence required of her on the campaign trail.
Even FDR managed to fake it for the rubes.
I’m out.
By this time tomorrow, God willing, we’ll have forgotten everything we ever knew, however alcohol induced, and we’ll be better for it.
Get ’em the fuck in and have a great weekend y’all.


Making Love (At The Dark End Of The Street)
Clarence Carter
Atlantic Records | 1969

Hell’s Skylight, Or The Official Rollin’ Like Sisyphus Endorsement For President Of The United States Of America

So here it is, a little on the plus side of four years since the Rollin’ Like Sisyphus Panic Desk endorsed its first-ever living-and-breathing major-party candidate for President of the United States of America, and now we’re going to do it again.
While I’d expect this endorsement to come as a surprise, as El Borak noted, I quite enjoy ripping the stitches out with a pitchfork, and the esteemed members of the RLS Panic Desk even more so. Since you all know that already, maybe this won’t be much of a surprise to the six of you who still read this blog.
The formulae used to determine the endorsement is much the same as the one the RLS Panic Desk uses to determine the current Apocalypse Watch, which astute observers will note hasn’t changed from Roman Holiday in 459 days. The formulae used are wholly proprietary, but I can tell you that it involves ambivalent magics, belligerent clerics of various faiths, stolen alien technology, a minor prop from the set of Paint Your Wagon and one .308 Winchester round tethered to a weather vane by a string of dental floss.
The dental floss is cursed, the bullet less so.
Endorsement below the fold.
Continue reading “Hell’s Skylight, Or The Official Rollin’ Like Sisyphus Endorsement For President Of The United States Of America”

Good Music Friday — Rock Me, Lord Edition

Have to cut out quick, because that’s all Fridays are about anymore. Cutting and running and wallowing in a brief island of relief that is inevitably and ultimately fleeting.
So have a bitchin’ weekend. I get to watch the Dodgers either get massacred by the best Cubs team in 108 years, or I get to enjoy watching as cursed fate twists its knife into the heart of Chicago yet again.
I’m honestly good with either.
Get ’em the fuck in. Chances are, I’m already way ahead of you.


Swing Down, Sweet Chariot
Live Performance
The Apollas
Courtesy of Loma Records | 1964

Who Doesn’t Love Surprises


So I find myself, on this drizzly useless Wednesday afternoon, with a few minutes to kill and a few observations to share. Time was an election had an October Surprise, a singular event that would irrevocably alter the race and present a clear demarcation point for one candidate’s rise over another.
Which works great when it’s a singular, distinguishing event. When every day in the month of October offers surprise after surprise, the concept loses its impact among the racket of the roller coaster. For the same reason that Arena Football isn’t nearly as entertaining as regular football — the counterintuitive notion that scores are exciting but less so when they happen every possession — these “surprises” don’t stick like conventional wisdom insists. The reason a score in regular (old time) football is exciting is because it is a relative rarity; there is a suspense underlying it. When every possession for both teams is a score, all it comes down to is who has the ball last.
That’s all this election boils down to – 101 weeks of mayhem, violence, insanity and agitprop that is largely meaningless because the winner will be decided by the eenie-meenie-miney-mo of who holds the ball at the end.
A quick glance at the electorate and I must conclude there are worse ways to decide this thing.
In sum:
We have openly declared fraud across the country as regards voters, ballots cast, and ballots processed.
Every day for nearly a week WikiLeaks has dumped emails from just about all concerned parties in the Clinton camp that continue to reinforce her intimate relationships with corruption, lies, strong-arm thuggery, and political duplicitousness so brazen and callow that it surprised even myself a little at just how unapologetically direct it all is. Then on top of that, Clinton is revealed to be even more dull, slow-witted, ill, craven, and disdainful of Americans than we already thought.
And yet the polls show her winning in a walk because Trump is a big meanie head.
We have a looming external conflict with Russia.
We have a looming external conflict with China.
We have a looming external conflict with the expansion of Islam.
We have a growing external conflict between competing factions of globalists.
We have a growing external conflict between all of those globalists and anti-globalists.
We have a looming internal conflict between the classes.
We have a looming internal conflict between the races.
We have a looming internal conflict between the indigenous and the imported.
We have a looming internal conflict between the rulers and the ruled.
We have a looming internal conflict between the agrarians and the urbanites.
We have a looming internal conflict between our economic system and the pull of fiscal gravity.
We have a looming internal conflict between the victims of the largest robbery in human history and those trying to buy just enough time to make their getaway.
So given all of that, yeah, I’d rather talk about grabbing women by the pussy 11 years ago as well.
Who wouldn’t.
Especially if your chosen candidate is the driving force behind at least a third of that list, and a witless enabler to the rest of it. You’d want to deflect also. So I have no idea how this shakes out. What I do know is that there is a higher level of panic in media and in liberal circles as I’ve ever seen. I trust nothing. Not the polls. Not the anecdotes. Not the endless fact checks and analysis and platitudes and insistences that EVERY VOTE MATTERS(unlessitsfortrump). I do not see Vox’s ballyhooed TRUMPENKRIEGSLIDE because if we were still an electorate capable of mustering it, it wouldn’t be needed.
The answer might surprise you, for reasons that won’t surprise you at all.

Good Music Friday

Friday again, so fucking what.
Busy as all Hell.
Plus I get to work another Saturday tomorrow, and probably another one next week.
The only thing worse than a Friday coming too soon is one that doesn’t really come at all, or is gender confused with Thursday or something.
Fuck it.
SITREP – Will be drunk as all fuck soon enough.
Didn’t die in the Cal-Tech predicted earthquake – swing-and-a-miss.
Everyone’s getting all nice and comfortable with the fact that the healthies feminist-human hybrid ever to run for political office has the White House so much in the bag that she can take five more days off the campaign trail for “intense debate prep” which I’m sure includes plenty of nap time, watching a few reruns of Classic Concentration on The Game Show Network, and bathing in stem cells for hours at a time while King Crimson bootleg tapes play softly in the background. So if you’re counting, she’s taken 18 days off the campaign trail in the final six weeks of the election to “prepare” for two 90-minute debates.
On the other side, Trump blows off his own debate prep time and again, this time walking out of a staged Question-And-Answer Town Hall-Style event after only six of the 20 questions were run through before he said “why do I need to do this? Hillary isn’t doing this. She’s resting. You know she’s resting.”
So Sunday’s debate should be a sight to see that I will avoid like the plagues, because Holy Hell why would I do that to myself?
I have a mature and compelling sense of self-regard, here.
Anyway, I’m out.
Have a more bitchin’ weekend than I plan to, friends.
There’s a light at the end of this thing yet.
Get ‘em the fuck in.


Samson and Delilah
Gospel, Blues, and Street Songs
The Rev. Gary Davis
Riverside Records | 1961

Good Music Friday

Why not.
All the better when I have to punch in tomorrow for a few hours, which should tell you everything you need to know about how well that project for work is getting along. Which is to say hardly at all.
But enough about that.
What a week.
On Monday was the DEBATE TO END ALL DEBATES(untilthenextonein10days) and the Warrior Host of the TRUMPENKRIEG were whetting for Clinton blood, assured that she was going to be destroyed, whether through the culmination of her manifold malaises or through the sheer iron force of the man himself.
Cut to 90 minutes later, and a smugly smirking possibly robotically assisted Clinton still stood there, gripping her Special Ed podium for all she was worth, exhausted from the COUGHING PREVENTION MACHINERY sutured into her body and from all the handwave gesturing she was using to send in the play call to the moderator throughout the night. That the debate would be rigged and stage-managed to such a point came as a surprise to no one except, seemingly, the TRUMPENKRIEG, who I think expected Trump to walk out on stage, shake Clinton’s hand, call her a lying sack of cunts stuffed into a pantsuit, and then stab her to death with her own Epi Pen. Barring that, they expected Clinton to keel over dead within minutes.
Anyway, the nuts and bolts of it are that Clinton needed to survive and exit the stage after 90 minutes under her own power, while Trump needed to refrain from launching any red-face tirades, and for all intents and purposes, they both hit their marks – anything more than basic survival was all gravy for Clinton, all the times Trump refrained from calling her a cunt likewise. All of the straw polls show Trump winning the debate; all of the “scientific” polls show Clinton won, and all of the mass of data and agitprop in between shows pretty clearly that neither moved the needle much either way.
In fact, the whole thing has the look and feel of a classic psy op. In the couple of weeks leading up to the debate, the polls narrowed to such a point where the candidates were neck-and-neck on debate day. I predicted on Monday that if this were a rigged confidence game, the polls will separate and by the end of the week Clinton would be clearly pulling ahead, no matter how badly the polls had to be gamed to achieve the necessary results.
So in the past few days you did begin to see movement in tracking polls – Clinton has begun to pull ahead in polls where the weighted sample increases the number of Democrats and decreases the numbers of both Republicans and Independents – for example the Reuters/Ipsos poll once again switched their methodology and has undertaken a 44%/28%/28% sample split for D/R/I where last week they were using a 36%/31%/33% split for D/R/I. And with stacking in that many more Democrats, they managed to move her poll lead from +1 to +3.
The LA Times tracking poll, along with a couple of others that has maintained a consistent methodology, shows Trump gaining slight ground.
I think Clinton will need to do more than merely survive the next debate to move her numbers.
Unless, as I suspect, she’s already won and we’re just trudging through the motions for appearances’ sake.
So this Sunday the long-time announcer for the Los Angeles Dodgers, Vin Scully, will call his last game, fittingly 80 years to the day of watching his first baseball game. Vin, with his distinctive voice that was as much a part of summer as a smooth breeze coming low off of the water, is a gifted storyteller of the type we just don’t have anymore, and his departure is just another in a long series of good things going away only to be replaced by flagrant mediocrities. It’s beginning to dawn on me that a large part of the reason I still tune into Dodger games is simply to listen to a great artist perform his craft at the highest possible level, like witnessing Louis Armstrong on the trumpet or Stevie Ray Vaughn on the guitar. Couple that with the man’s humble nature and earnest thanks to God for his blessings, he is a man apart and one of the last few links we have to a better time that is now virtually extinct.
So on Sunday, I’ll head out to my workshop, pop on the radio I have on the workbench, and listen to the voice of summer paint a picture of a game I used to love one last time while I tend to some trivial, menial task and bask in the fleeting heat of the dwindling summer. And when he’s done, I think I will be as well, with baseball and sports in general, because I just don’t know if I can muster a single fuck anymore.
But for all that, if ever there was a time in a person’s life to experience one of the greatest moments in sports history, that time is when you’re an 11-year-old boy with your brother and father in your father’s workshop, listening to the greatest announcer ever paint the picture of that great moment through a tinny transistor radio over on the workbench.
This is that moment:

That’s it.
That’s all I’ve got.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the Hell in.


Take Me Out To The Ball Game
S/R Recording
George Rabbai
Warner Music | 1988