Good Music Friday

So remember how much I hated last week, to the point where I actively schemed to leverage everything I know about the physical universe to corporealize the week for the sole purpose of gleefully murdering it, resurrecting it, then murdering it again?
Do you remember that?
Multiply by a factor of one hundred trillion and you have a ballpark figure for my distaste of this week.
Good Lord.
It’s so bad I’m not even going to bother with most of the useless commentary I foist upon you about the doin’s and transpirin’s of the larger world.
You’ll get a pack of mercifully briefs complaints (most of which you’ve already suffered through), and admonition to drink yourselves to a comfortable state or to oblivion, which ever you happen upon first, and a song to carry you on your way.
That’s more than you get most places, times being what they are and all.
In brief:
CUNTON II takes on Pepe and the Alt-Right, loses
Trumpenkrieg backpedals on immigration, loses
Media takes on reality, loses
Closer to home, the weather’s fine and I’m already working my way toward oblivion.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the Hell in.

SONG SELECTION

I Drink Alone
Maverick
George Thorogood & The Destroyers
EMI Records | 1985


Good Music Friday

Another Friday cast off to Valhalla, and with it another motherfucking week decapitated, vivisected and left to the animals. And yet, the weeks keep coming, they are legion, and one day, some day, a week will come along that bests me.
I’m cheered the fuck up.
How are y’all?
Here, for yours truly, it’s 11:46AM PDT and I’ve never wanted a drink more than I do right now. Never in my entire life.
So we’re shooting about PAR.
Out there in the world, a significant portion of Louisiana being underwater for going on two weeks, all anyone seems to talk about is a swimmer who says he got robbed in Rio, while the Brazillians insist he fabricated the whole thing. Caught on video, it looks like security at a gas station tried to shake down the swimmer(s) and a fiasco ensued.
Yet I could not give two flying fucks.
Trump’s going to either LOSE BIG or WIN BIGGER, depending on who’s talking. The polls are so all over the road it’s tough to get any kind of actual indication – some show it a tight race nationally, some show a Clinton blowout. State polls, however, almost all point to a growing and near-insurmountable Trump loss. By the state polls, battleground states like Virginia, Colorado, North Carolina, Florida and Pennsylvania are all double-digit leads for The Cripple Cunton, while ordinarily safe states like Georgia and Utah seem poised to flip blue as well.
BUT IT’S ONLY THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
None of these matter, really, until we’re approaching the end of September.
And I mean that in both directions, both for the corrupt apparatchiks insisting The Cripple Cunton has already won this thing and to the Trumpkins predicting a MONDALEAN landslide.
SHUT THE FUCK UP, THE BOTH OF YOU.
Anyway.
Another weekend, another list of unaccomplished projects, yet I keep making lists.
That’s it.
That’s all I know.
Get ‘em y’all, and yourselves an excellent weekend.

SONG SELECTION

Cold, Cold Ground
Franks Wild Years
Tom Waits
Island Records | 1987


Good Music Friday

If this week were a person, you know, if it were somehow possible to corporealize, animate and then anthropomorphize a specific series of days into a living, breathing human possessed of full faculties and moral agency, I would walk right up to that week-person, stab it in the throat, stuff rocks into its pockets, then roll it off the end of the nearest pier.
And then dredge him up, and do it all again.
TL;DR:
Fuck this motherfucking week.
So imagine you are an executive who oversees a team that is in neck-deep on a project that is about as do-or-die as e-commerce software development gets. You’re already incredibly short-handed, witnessing Indian Dot-Not-Feather contractors fail miserably by the dozen, you’re three months past deadline and the biggest obstacle is, charitably, your own recalcitrance regarding the expected scope of the project.
So what do you do?
Fire the competent supervisor of that team solely for being “not enthusiastic enough” about the project, then bring in a new supervisor from outside the company, forcing the team further away from their work because they now have to spend weeks they don’t have just to get the new guy up to speed.
For the first time in my life I am totally, absolutely, 100 percent fine with the imminent collapse of the economy.
In other news, CUNTON II is with every passing day revealed to be more corrupt, crippled, and crotchety, three things I certainly look for in a leader. Trump is predictably fighting with 1) CUNTON II 2) CUNTON II swarthy constituency 3) CUNTON II’s free advertising arm, The Press 4) GOPe operatives who are fighting harder now against Trump than they ever have against any Democrat for any race at any level.
Steep, steep odds.
So in sum, we have a Mafia Moll with delusions of grandeur running as a Democrat, a Democrat businessman running as a Republican, a RINO-Liberal running as a Libertarian, and a Jewess running as an Environmental Crypto-Communist.
We get the world we deserve sometimes.
Closer to home, I’ve got the smoker painted, matte black with a gloss coat. I did a seasoning burn a couple of nights ago and the damn thing held temperature like a champ. Tomorrow morning I’ll throw a couple racks of ribs and a pork shoulder in for its first cook and see how she runs. The weather’s been absolutely golden lately, and I’m looking forward to being outside as much as possible the next couple of days.
That’s it.
That’s all I know.
Keep it tight and get ‘em in.
Have a great weekend.

SONG SELECTION

Shout! Shout! Knock Yourself Out!
Down On The Beach
Ernie Maresca
London Records | 1962


Good Music Friday

Another week has come and gone.
I don’t know if you follow the polls or the shrieking from our professional punditariat class, but CUNTON II THE RESTORATION is poised to win by 137 points and the gap is widening.
A good conspiracy theorist would wonder how the polls all of sudden coalesce following a Democratic convention rife with acrimony, recriminations, violence, walk-outs and the service of two lawsuits alleging fraud and collusion – the lead lawyer of one suit, by the way, was found dead in his bathroom a couple of days ago but I’m sure that’s just bad luck – when the only thing of note that has transpired is a lot more stories about CUNTON’s corruption, Obama left holding the empty bag on a cash-for-hostages scheme with Iran, and the outrage following Trump telling a raghead who was using his own dead son as a political cudgel to stop being a tool.
So with all that it’s swung +7 for Trump to, if you can believe it, +15 for CUNTON.
In a week.
Yep.
I’m sure that’s all above board.
Nothing to see here.
Move along.
Funny, also, that for more than a week it’s been all quiet on the western front, with nary a cop killed or soft public space massacred.
PREDICTION: the next time a story breaks that gets politically untenable for CUNTON, within 72 hours bodies start dropping in a high profile way.
A fun data research project would be to go back over the past few years and correlate high-profile mass-casualty events with any unflattering news stories that may have preceded them. I bet that’d be one Hell of an interesting spreadsheet.
But alas.
Not much on the homefront this weekend. Weather is still mostly pleasant in the low to mid 80s, but humid. I’ve got a shit load of outside work to do, including burning down some more bamboo; bamboo that just will not die.
Have a bitchin’ weekend y’all, and get ‘em the Hell in.

SONG SELECTION

Endless
Battle Hymns I
Cancerslug
S/R | 2004


Do-It-Yourself Seppuku In 12 Easy Steps, Or How I Would Make A Positive Case For Electing Hillary Clinton As President Of The United States Of America

So El Borak had himself an idea.
Far be it for me to pish and tosh at it since the answer slapped me in the face almost immediately.
The positive case for electing the vile, angry, bitter, dementia-riddled crypto-feminist rests on a simple maxim, best expressed by Churchill – when one finds himself going through Hell, it’s best to keep going.
Travel over any distance is a simple ratio between time and velocity – we already know where this ends, we simply don’t know when.
With Hillary at the Helm the when of the matter seems less hazy. Adding a heaping helping of corruption, fraud, race-baiting, racketeering, third-world immigration, government spending, taxation and expansion onto the already swollen glot of strains to the system is the kind of thing that breaks backs and shatters lives. This doesn’t end unless and until the comforts of contemporary life – as superficial as they may be anymore – are relegated to the wistful memories of a time and place that will never again exist in our lifetimes.
Time to get on with it.
Elect Hillary Clinton.
Burn it down.
There’s no saving Western Civilization, there’s no Making [#] Great Again, there’s only friction and conflict and enemies lists and the sooner we get to the end the sooner we get to the beginning.
Fundamentally, every age has it’s flavor of tyranny. Ours happens to be the tyranny that comes from forcing disparate groups with wildly divergent interests to share geo-political space just to see how many muslims can dance around a sombrero on Chinese New Year.
Burn it down.
Down to the ground.

Good Music Friday

If the past week didn’t give you whiplash, you’re either dead already or sufficiently numb to the exigencies of the world.
In either case, I think, I envy you.
What you can you say about the Democrats, other than they’re a fun bunch.
They’re unified as fuck, so long as the camera keeps tight on the speaker’s podium and the lights stay dim and the audio gets filtered out by professionals to hone in on the dronings of the apparatchiks only. Pay no heed to the 1,000+ who walked out following CUNTON II’s official nomination, the violent protests raging outside the five-mile perimeter of the event site – a perimeter that was “breached” multiple times throughout the week – and all of this coalesced into a spectacle centered around the last true die-hards against the impinging forces of the real and quite tangible world beyond their cocoons of self-denial. After the Sanders contingent was extricated from the proceedings, it was clear everyone remaining was paid to be there – many at $50 /hr to fill empty seats vacated by the BernTard Brigade – others waiting to be paid in influence, federal appointments, and God only knows what else.
So after both party conventions, and both acceptance speeches, it is clear that this is a race between a narcissistic blowhard who is an angry, brutal, capricious thug with a dim view of American life, suffering in equal measure from delusions of grandeur and fits of rage, prone to wild, unpredictable outbursts; and Donald Trump.
Oh and because he’s floating somewhere between 6% and 11%, we’ll through the Liberaltardian into the mix. And if the Communist somehow gets the Socialist on board her campaign, we’ll put the Grass Hut party in there too at 3%-5%.
FUN GODDAMN TIMES.
Anyway.
Closer to home, there is not much happening. Still swamped as all Hell. Projects keep piling up, we keep losing people, and there isn’t enough collected talent and skill in all of India that can help us bridge the gap. Ask me how I know this. The major project that was supposed to wrap by end of May is now pushing well into September, at least, so at least I’ll have distractions from the end of the world. Which is how you get through it I guess.
Nothing on tap for the weekend, mercifully. Weather’s been warm and balmy, but not ridiculously so. I suspect I’ll retire to the back deck for the evening, a cold beer (or 12) and a warm summer night, a ball game on the radio, and I’m finally going to read Antifragile and see what all the fuss is about.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the fuck in, friends.

SONG SELECTION

Olympia, WA
Stockton Boulevard
Stars & Garters
CD Baby | 2007


Good Music Friday

Friday.
Damn it all to Hell.
So there was a political convention this week, and despite the many INCREDIBLE things that transpired at said convention, it was notable for how uneventful it was, both inside and out.
The HASHTAGNEVERTRUMP failed to get itself off the ground, and despite the delegates from several states throwing their credentials at the podium before walking out, five minutes later no one seemed to notice or care. The Presumptive First-Lady-Elect plagiarized a pedestrian speech from the current First, er, Lady, but despite the best efforts of everyone involved, the media incredulity rang hollow. So then Ted Cruz – who HASHTAGNEVERTRUMPers desperately hoped would orchestrate a convention walkout with his legion of followers – was instead booed off the stage by Trump’s legion of followers. Then some speeches by Trump’s family, a speech by Trump, 22 protesters arrested in the course of four days, one of whom lit himself on fire while trying to burn an American flag, 50,000 HASHTAGBIKERS4TRUMP, four days of lamentations from would-be ANARCHISTS FOR BIG GOVERNMENT protesters whining that counterprotesters showed up armed, and it all led to something less eventful than Mahjong Night at Rotary Club’s Youth Auxiliary Bake Sale & Hootenanny.
Oh and Muslims keep attacking whitey throughout Europe and the United States.
But don’t worry about that.
That’s all going according to plan.
So what else happened.
Turkey was briefly overthrown before it wasn’t, then the surviving president launched a thorough purging of all of his enemies through every institution, with many a whisper that the whole affair was either faked top-to-bottom or that the coup was known by the government ahead of time and allowed to proceed. That ought to about do it for Turkey – the country will not see another non-Islamic day for a century or more, but no worries, Because NATO or something.
Beyond that, I got nothing.
It’s Drink O’ Clock and high time for low livin’.
OBLIVION OR BUST.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the fuck in, whatever else you do.

SONG SELECTION

My Creole Belle
The Best of Mississippi John Hurt
Mississippi John Hurt
Vanguard Records | 1970