Good Music Friday

Two posts in just a little over 24 hours.
I spoil y’all, sometimes. I just want you to know that.
I’m going to keep this mercifully short, because I’m swamped on the run.
At least one of those things is true.
Team CUNTON is sweating Monday’s debate like nobody’s business, with OFFICIAL RULES coming down from On High (interestingly enough, a debate commission chalk full of people who owe favors to the Clintons) that there will be no breaks of any kind, even if one of the candidate’s enters into a prolonged coughing jag – no timeouts, no cutaways, no cutting the mics – it goes forward or not at all.
Also, Team CUNTON demanded a step stool so as to appear equal in stature to Trump. Team CUNTON was denied. However, CUNTON will have a specially made podium so that in single shots she will seem in proportion. In shots of them both, however, she is very likely to look like a cripple screeching from the children’s table at Thanksgiving.
I wasn’t going to watch, but now, I probably still won’t.
Life is too short for that shit.
Eh, I might watch. But I know what’s going to happen. It’s going to be 90 minutes of CUNTON not succumbing to the grip of a Grand Mal seizure, hacking up her esophagus, or forgetting who she is and what she is doing there and who in the Hell are all these people.
No, there will be none of that. She’ll muddle through alive without incident and then her cadre of media lickspittle will hard-high-five each other until dawn while declaring VICTORY! Because that’s really all that’s expected of her at this point – don’t die, don’t succumb to seizure, don’t cough.
Which I’m sure she’ll manage with the help of enough drugs to make a carnival barker blanche.
Anyway.
Time for the weekend.
I’m getting drunk as fuck.
How ‘bout y’all?
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the fuck in, friends.

SONG SELECTION

Double-Shot Of My Baby’s Love
S/R Single
Dick Holler & The Holidays
Demo Recording | 1964


The Candidate Who Wasn’t There

So we have a candidate who is still somehow leading in the polls, such as they are, despite numerous questions surrounding her dealings, her health, and even her continued presence on this mortal coil. CUNTON II canceled every campaign event on her calendar this week without giving any reason, sending “superstar” surrogates like President-Sheriff Uncle Joe Biden, Our Simple Affirmative Action President Barack “The Islamic Shock” Obama, and First Wookie of the United States Michele Obama out onto the campaign trail to rally the troops and win over the undecideds. Between her campaign-by-proxy and her $68 million spent on ads (which yours truly got to suffer through during every commercial break of every football game he watched this past weekend) Trump has still managed to close the gaps in numerous (and dubious) polls since Labor Day, almost as if he were running against a politician as disliked and disenfranchised from any natural constituency as Jeb Bush.
And yet, despite all that fall, and all the appearances that this is now a dead-even race, CUNTON II herself ponders why she isn’t 50 points ahead at this point in the race, as her original campaign plan had accounted for at this point in the race.
To answer that question, I must ask a few questions of my own regarding the Democratic candidate.

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, still alive?

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, a robot, an android, a cyborg, or an automaton?

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, the cumulative result of apply green-screen and CGI techniques to create the impression that she is alive, well, and actively campaigning without any actual evidence of her physical presence existing anywhere?

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, the cumulative result of next-generation holographic technology, the predecessors of which had a resurrected Tupac performing on stage at Coachella, Michael Jackson avoiding pedophilia charges at the Billboard Music Awards, and Ronald Reagan giving a speech on the horrors of a potential Mitt Romney presidency, the creators have the hologram have been conspicuously quiet since about the time that Clinton officially announced her run for 2016. Perhaps they’ve been busy.

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, a composite Frankenstein of dead Democratic voters?

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, Boris Yeltsin in drag, exiled through whatever the New Russian equivalent of Witness Protection is called?

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, Julian Assange in drag, exiled through whatever the Post-Colonial Ecuadorian equivalent of Witness Protection is called?

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, Michael J. Fox in drag, exiled from a parallel dimension where Family Ties was less a quaint, feel-good television show, and more of a wartime atrocity?

Is Hillary Clinton, as of September 22, 2016 at 13:01 PDT, Carmen San Diego?

Ordinarily I’d close this out by satirically pointing out that I’m joking.
But I’m not joking.
Given everything I’ve seen and everything I know about Clinton and her cohort, each and every one of these possibilities is valid and fair game, and frighteningly not mutually exclusive of each other.
ANY OR ALL OF THEM MIGHT BE TRUE.
May God have mercy upon us all.

Good Music Friday

[RUMINATIONS AND GRUMBLINGS AND UTTER SHOCK AND DISMAY AT THE LIGHTENING PACE WITH WHICH YET ANOTHER WEEK HAS GONE BY MERCIFULLY REDACTED]
So Fuck it.
Anyway.
I notice that this insane-but-kinda-not-really election cycle trundles into new ground, as a corrupt, criminal cripple refuses to quit in the face of growing unpopularity and her own increasingly desperate quest for a suitable and lasting convalescence. How someone could 1) catch a non-contagious chest infection and then 2) how that non-contagious chest infection presents like a severe and acute neurological event is beyond me, but there it is, the press in mid-victory lap because CUNTON II managed to go a few days without dying. At this point, the expectations of her are so low that all she really has to do for the next five weeks is 1) not die and 2) not collapse on camera for her team and the media to declare victory of the raciss’ and certify her FIT AS A FIDDLE AND READY FOR DUTY. Yet her poll numbers – the ones that already seemed cooked more thoroughly than a Thanksgiving turkey – are already plummeting as the fiasco reinforces the perception that CUNTON II is a secretive and corrupt hack who’s first instinct is to lie, and then to keep trying new lies until one finally sticks, who couldn’t be honest if her life depended on it (and it just might), who couldn’t hit the truth if it were the side of a barn, and who is so desperate for power and influence that she wouldn’t even let a serious degenerative neurological condition get in the way of her quest.
And people tend to distrust that, though demographics being what they currently are, less and less every day.
Yet despite all that, and we’ll have to see if her poll numbers keep dropping and if anything will happen (of course it will), but despite all that, hopes of a burgeoning TRUMPSLIDE seem fleeting at best.
I did a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation of the projected electoral map, being generous and flipping every state that was red, leaning red, toss up, and leaning blue all the way to +3 over to Trump.
And he barely squeaks by at 279 electoral college votes.
This looks like his ceiling to me.

screenshot_23

Maybe he can pull off Pennsylvania and Michigan, but I would not bet on it.
Some seem to think Virginia is flippable as well, but be honest – northern Virginia is where all the people who’s careers depend on status-quo business-as-usual government have decided to homestead, plus the Dem Vice Presidential nominee was elected by this state as a senator just four years ago.
And as for Pennsylvania, all the Dems need to do is ensure 110% turnout in all Philadelphia and Pittsburgh precincts again that go 109-1 for CUNTON/KAINE and that’s that. Trump could over-perform throughout the rest of the state by a factor of 10 and not overcome it.
So that’s that.
And at even this late date, I’m not sure who to endorse (though not vote for, because fuck that noise).
I hate Hillary Clinton with the white-hot fury of 10,000 suns, and her election would make all of the people I have grown to loathe maniacally happy and petulant.
I can’t have that.
Yet I know in my gut Trump is a sham, and any joy taken in his potential election exists solely in the pain, misery and hysterics of my enemies, along with the fleeting comfort that comes from knowing that all of the numbers haven’t flipped against us yet, which is great for a few days, but then what?
In addition, both of these takes reveal a woeful myopia and tendency toward short-term tactical thinking. I can make a stronger long-term strategic case for electing Hillary Clinton than I can for electing Trump, yet my central nervous system just won’t allow me to do it, let alone even entertain the notion for more than a few moments at a time.
So I’ll think on it a spell, and I’ll make the official Rollin’ Like Sisyphus Endorsement for President of the United States of America sometime soon.
In the meantime, it’s Friday, it’s about 2 hours from quittin’ time, which translates perfectly to drinkin’ time, apostrophe and all, so carve that into the belly of the Earth and let it serve as an epitaph for our time here.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the fuck in, friends.
OH AND ONE MORE THING – any copy editors or people that can edit – a couple of the Ilk and I are trying to put together an editing and review service specifically geared toward self-publishers and we’re cobbling together a business model and an operational model. Anyone interested in lending a hand and doing some editing for hopefully profit please let me know, or if you’re a member of the Foundry please see the posts on there about it.

SONG SELECTION

Sink With California
Sound And Fury
Youth Brigade
BYO Records | 1983


Good Music Friday

We just did this.
Didn’t we just do this?
Like 3 hours ago?
What in the fucking Hell.
Friday.
It’s a special kind of Hell where it’s always Friday, forever and anon, just on the precipice of sweet release, drowning in the anticipation of a freedom that is at best fleeting, at worst elusive, and in sum a luxury one will never know.
But fuck it, football’s back and I’m getting lit this weekend.
Still stuck with work and this stupid, horrible, unkillable project that refuses to go down easy, or at all really. So this will be short.
Besides, nothing much different happened with this two-year presidential election cycle in the past week. Just the usual.
Just the usual.
Get ‘em in and have a bitchin’ Super Charged weekend.

SONG SELECTION

San Diego Super Chargers
S/T Single
Captain QB & The Big Boys
Marcellino & Sieff | 1979


Good Music Friday

El Borak was right.
I didn’t much care for the past week either.
Safe bet or sage prognostication?
I’ll leave it for y’all to decide.
In just under an hour I’ll be home, earlier than usual, where I will proceed immediately to the old hammock, libation and a good book in tow, and God willing I won’t need to surface again for the better part of 72 hours or the end of the world, whatever gets here first.
In that spirit, let’s take a mercifully brief spin around the world that was this week:
Weiner whips it out and uses toddler child to pitch woo
Trump invades Mexico and pisses off all the Latinos that weren’t going to vote for him anyway
Clinton sleeps 18 hours a day, and has thus far avoided vertigo, seizures and death
Also, overnight, it seems the FBI released their, ahem, “notes” on the investigation into Clinton and her emails. In brief, either she is the most inept, brain-addled, dementia-riddled simpleton to ever seek the presidency of the United States of America, or she’s a corrupt, lying, scrupulous pantsuit shaped sack of shit.
Guess which way I’m leanin’ there.
Alright.
Time to get some.
Have a bitchin’ holiday weekend and get ‘em in.

SONG SELECTION

Civil War
Use Your Illusion II
Guns N’ Roses
Geffen Records | 1991


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