Writers whose works I love: Neal Stephenson, Thomas Pynchon, Neil Gaiman, Margaret Atwood, Herman Melville, Ishmael Reed, Leo Tolstoy, Franz Kafka, Feodor Dostoevsky, Anton Chekhov, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, and James Joyce.
Email at PeterRobJon at gmail
Twitter: BrevetCaptain
The. Best. Ever. TFB
The GOAT.
(Source: kissmyrask)
Beastie Boys, ‘The Sounds of Science’ from Paul’s Boutique.
iTunes’ first song on shuffle today: ‘Stop’ by Jane’s Addiction.
I think this is as good a song as an American band has ever produced. First of all, Eric A and Stephen Perkins’ rhythm section drives this song, but the way they work together yet paradoxically independently amazes me. I can’t think of a band that has four voices meshing yet standing out so singularly—not even RHCP.
Then there’s Navarro’s guitar work. I don’t know much about music other than: this. is. awesome. Layers of sound, screaming and soaring and wailing, yeah, I dig it.
I love the opening, welcoming us into the band’s magnum opus, then Perry’s vocals have that weird vibe and presence that defined their sound and their live act.
,Gimmie that!
Gimme back that automobile,
Turn off that smokestack
And that goddamn radio
Hum… along with me…
Hum along with the t.v.
Sam Cooke, ‘Let the Good Times Roll’
Nike has been running this under their latest basketball campaign, and despite this fact, this song, kids, might just be the best American music has ever been.
I love Otis; I love The Band even though they had some Canadians (gasp!) in their midst; I love Dylan, the Ramones, Cash, the beautiful noises from Seattle’s Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, et al, but Sam Cooke is the GOAT.
As Joey the Lips says, ‘God Bless his sweet soul.’
,Grading with the Pixies’ acoustic DVD of their set at the Newport Folk Festival a few years ago. The sound is incredible, the band was in a great mood, and playful.
But daaayumn, Frank, you heavy. Mix in a salad, brother. We want you to stick around for a while, ya know?
Happy Birthday James Joyce!
riverrun, past Eve and Adams, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth, Castle and Environs.
Happy Birthday Joyce.
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
— Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely:
— Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.
— Back to barracks! he said sternly.
All I really want to do today is go read Pynchon. V., Gravity’s Rainbow, Mason & Dixon? Yeah. All of it.
This is one of the last of Pynchon’s photos—the jolly jack tar—about 1956.
I really want to rescue a Doberman for my next dog.
