Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
20 years ago I wasn't listening to this. I was listening to... I don't know, whatever a 7-year-old listened to in 1989. I didn't hear the Pixies until I was about 17, give or take. Tonight I'll see them for the first time, playing the above album at Hammerstein Ballroom. I don't know what will happen when I'm 37. Maybe I'll be in the band.......
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Like with the crossed-ankle girl, I took this blindly, holding the camera at my waist and pretending not to be taking a picture. Lucked out. Also, he unwittingly helped me out by covering himself in silver body paint. Good job, dude.
On the sidewalk in front of a fancy apartment building on Riverside Drive. A bunch of charred magazines or something were "strewn about." It was night, and the only light was from yellow lightbulbs on the building.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, --
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now load on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,--
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,--
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
IN THE PAST OF YESTERDAY
I had nuts, yeah. I had lotsa
nuts. I was even better a trombonist
than not. Chivalry died that day.
Can I peruse your ambulance
if it means I get to play with
the siren? There is a town
where such things are permitted.
It is not for you or me to visit.
An angel, a basketball, a trapeze:
what do they have in common?
To win, one must have
a game plan. The plan is to wait. To
jump in air. The fire is higher.
One time I was coming home
from the office when I was
assaulted thrice. Every dowager
has a manager. It's sports time,
plenty of muffins for all. Decoders
came, cleaned us out. Fine drapes
seconded April storage folks.
Alaska! The furry friend
happened along to cry into
a sweetheart's bilious banter.
There was no porridge left. There
was no carrots left. He am left for
bridge over water; he gone!
Niceness precludes this. Say what?
I am pretty sure you're fibbing.
You're getting to know yourself!
What's that for? An elongated
Christmas elf "gone to pot"? Like
I said, nuthin' doin'. Like before,
a moose, like a veritable cheese
explainer. Was the harm like
sky always? Or have we
flabbier horizons? Nutritious though
that may be, I can think of less
in the way of us as throughout
the car-filled firmament
chimes spryly sigh. Acquit your-
self of time-ravaged batting
cages! It is like moving around
inside a moth. Really interesting
people frequent this broth.
Crimes against humanity? How
about to freak out when asked
about it: supper takes place
here, pandas say. Love is a
More later, then combs are
purchased. Riding around in
this memorable hovercraft
is where it's at. Eye level approaches,
but does not exceed legal
as all that, eh? Well, this'll show
you what happened when faced
with perfectly reasonable solutions
to batshit crazy propositions.
I was in the process of ordering
a salad on some bench when
there appeared to be a not
unfortunate gathering of yellow-
eyed creatures with huge leathery
wings and custom-made jackets.
It's not for you to divide them.
I was their president for a time.
Into the earth sank their fishy claws;
habits had mid-flight orgasms. Now
here's where it starts to get interesting:
Oops! out of time goodbye.