Friday, May 26, 2006

Six 2 Three (Not Edmonton) + (Photo Taken Down)

No good, I guess, but the team was due for a loss. How many wins in a row was that? Time to sit back a little, then. Selanne and Niedermayer just made it easier to excuse, is all. Did you see N stopping that third-period try? Man is brilliant, a contender. And nobody can stop desperation, so of course the Ducks were going to win. The Oilers go back to The Pond, then, and they'll V For Victory there, mark my words. I called the Thursday loss, and you can trust me on the next game, because it's Edmonton's. Not to lose, not to tuck away on a high shelf, not to toss away or fumble and drop, but to win. You'll see.

In other news, I hate my life. Only sometimes, but now is one of those. Listen, I'm not looking to change the world, I'm not looking for New England. Why is it that pleasing oneself always mean disappointing someone else? I swear, it's a law—it's a law! But Jean Rhys wants to know about the other side. Of course. "A day wasted on others is not wasted on one's self." Oh, Dickens, I cannot deny you.

[What's-up-date: 1) Ignore everything I said about hating my life. Only fools hate their lives. I'll grow a beard, instead, and learn to love red wine. 2) Why are Ryan Smith's ass-cheeks in the above picture so King Kong-mungous? Seriously, Ryan. Seriously. 3) Also, summer is a-coming in, loud sing the birds. Check it. Check it, I did.]

Sam Roberts + "Bridge To Nowhere"
Daniel Bedingfield + "I Gotta Get Through This"

Double up on a strong catch from the warm waters of the mainstream. I loathed "The Gate", Roberts' previous single from Chemical City. I love this one, though, because I hear an updated Paul Simon writing jingles for pharmaceutical companies and LavaLife, and it's a heartbreaking miracle how out of such commercial circumstances comes such beautiful music, such inevitable lyrics. "If this is a race then I hope you come last / You're on a bridge to nowhere and you're gettin' there fast". Oh, the lazy discipline with which the man sings, it's like a small river, I think, or a water-mill. And then I remember I just made those Lava-pharm circumstances up. It's all in my mind, and I'm building imaginary bridges, aren't I? Oh, it's a good song, a sad song, with a bounce in its step that won't be denied, a Charlie Chaplin song. Look at him twirl that cane and cry.

The Bedingfield. Is commercial. Is plastic. Is plus ten. Wilfully ignoring this present darkness, the machine empties its red heart of all emotion and sings in an empty room, a room which lacks doors or windows or any means of leaving or letting go. This is how Autobots lullaby when victory looks, once again, out of hand. This bit is a few years old, now (pretty much pre-WWI in Transformer years) and I hope the Autobots won/are winning.

PS: The Runner is back, flashing some pretty huge Clipse.

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