"No Ideas But in Things"

I've been trying to read this book recommended by Kate Davies, the Intelligent Craftafarian, since I left ground zero for Macondo. Still trying. It is where Marx and material culture and crafting and much else meet.

I'm on a jag with these LRB review posts because I finally fucking solved my pwd problem with the Luddites who run their site. Which is powered by Keebleroes on exercycles.

But the content, which is all I care about, is lush. Muddy Man, a barista at the local greasy, is a good and talented young reporter and political blogger. He can't afford a subscription to the NYT (who can? I'm thinking of losing my $100 a month Direct TV subscription instead since RuPaul is the only thing I care about on TV anymore; all my other vid info comes from the BBC, villagecharm, Netflix and Youtube) so when I breakfast at the greasy, which I tend to do in moments of spiritual trauma, I give him my NYT after having covered it well with buttery crumbs. After one particularly meaty Wednesday ish, MM, who is basically a desert rat reared far away from news of Manhattoes, said, in tones of wonder, It's so rich. 'Tis.

Yesterday I gave him the LRB, which I'd told him was a Communist rag, after perusing Judith Butler on who owns Kafka and Eagleton on Hobsbawm. It totally is a Communist rag, and long may it wave.

Herewith more godlessness.

( LRB review of A Sense of Things, American materialism )

Uni Libe Gank?

If any of you can gank me a copy of this, I will crochet you some violet lace.


http://muse.jhu.edu/login?uri=/journals/modernism-modernity/v006/6.2brown.html

Reading the LRB review of Bill Brown I just posted, I scribbled TIME PASSES in the margin next to the graf about how literature can redeem the material world from commodity fetishization. It's a reference to a famous passage from VW's To the Lighthouse. Crawling slowly, for I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, I come to the end of the graf only to discover that the reviewer is quoting from Brown's above piece on Virginia Woolf and objects.

So without knowing about any of this, I've been thinking about it since the first cataclysmic reading, in about 1968, with my eyes out on stix -- Sous les paves! -- of To the Lighthouse, which is, of course, la plage.

Wow

So the news is now in the comments at TMZ, where they're reporting all those sold out Charlie Sheen tour tickets are up for sale at Stub Hub and eBay and nobody's buying them. Wow.


http://www.stubhub.com/

Fug Madness 2011, Round One

When I accused GwynPal some time ago of -- being mutton dressed as lamb, basically, insecure about a rockstar hubs, I hadn't seen her in this dress.



Now thass fugly, troopies, and the Fug Girls are on the case. GOOP (have you read Gwynnie's unbearable website?) is up against Mary Kate Ashley Olson, the two-headed fugger, in Part II of Round One of the Charo bracket over at the Fug Girls, where the writing is sharper than DoPar's and the comments could whup DeBord's ass any day.

Plus, Mischa Barton is still alive and she is wearing knee window leggings.

Which are as nothing compared to The Family Smith.



Oh me. Life is good.

A Sort of a Song

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.
-- through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

-- William Carlos Williams