Posted October 31, Bill Knott exercises w/ Ashbery, and the result is not frantic. A careful, delimited discussion, and apt, as well, since Knott chose a short poem that opens "Takeitapart."

A wall of calm is put up, under which pillow talk can begin. Thus an authentic kindergarten, language, dance, charades, gets raised here and quest is forcibly asserted. It shapes who we are, the last phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance for a future attribute, pond stones having shown us their breasts. Tomorrow's cultural obligations transmit to each the small abstraction and pathetic complacency of her or his own ad hoc Oedipus, gooey homegrown beetle juice that reaches its goal! Dad is a doormat. Proof.

Working against deadline we accelerate our personalities, ordering a gloss over aluminum to realize something, anything like stardom. We have advanced a few feet. It's a look back over our lives the morning after the actual sublime. A lunatic fan rushes in or could rush in, a dentist, to remove our tongues. It seems pleasing since so sensible a creature understood us.

Congratulations, 6th city, from the 24th. Last year things didn't go the way we wanted in the playoffs. But they never gave up. They kept fighting and kept fighting, and today they're the world champions. Phillies Word Series Winners! An opera, albeit a comic one, smothered in delays, days of rain and Obama's ad sweep, might have been more heralded, and more harrowing, had Philadelphia slaughtered the BoSox rather than the caving Rays.

Watching saver Brad Lidge fall to his knees, throw his arms up in the air, then drop them, a starving apparition zoned down beside me. She stayed progressive in her assessment, he's scratching himself you know where. And why not? Lidge was home free. He was running to create wealth. And a dreamworld of adagios. It comes down to unfinished music and happy mediums (like except for me). Would she still be doing this if the sky hadn't cleared bringing cathartic release with fingers for claws? Yes, the sky has piano hands and yes! piano fingers — keep an eye on those two — clawing their way to the top. In other words the question is, harmony or being? I'll admit I've been suffering for decades from the hidden concord in trauma from a prior sexuality set to Mozart. Having his child, Mrs. Mozart is stuck here, fixated now, her eyes welled with decorative esthetics, the kind recognized in opera.

I got into e-mail trouble. And so to bed. You know, Napoleon slumbered through wish fulfillment. Chong, as well. Particular universality principles won't apply when you're sleeping over, in another world. In another universe, I mean. Love thy inhuman neighbors. Love their children, Imaginary, Fatso-holic, L'il Morbid. Ghost writing their ideology is pure authorship, a reduced antithesis to a fake screen name and false distance. We're all redistributionists, psychologically, living librettos, not killing machines. In the soprano dawn, through October, nothing's not indexed to playing with cats and growing tulips. Politics is anger, gizmos, useless bruising rhetoric. And money is gross, always. We cross the road tonight. Join the revolution of ex-rich kids slicing up symbols for our very first film with an opening caption dedicated to echoes of the Ramones covering Cole Porter. Whatever they call you girls.

Skinheads target poodleheads because of a themeless pudding for tonal platitude. We are free — still — to say what they think, but their recipes, or ours, are hardly unadulterated, perfused with empathetic spices and accents from leftist modernism. The century-old middle ground is where we live and continue playing on vulgar innuendoes to be kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating the other to feel obliged to receive you generously.

You could put both of you or all three in a position of bourgeois indignation, otherwise.

Her beautiful red hair, his gainsaying oomph, we're cruising at altitudes of theorem, and most of the quack probabilities are undistinguished until you return their excrement wrapped in see-through plastic. Where does the political economy have you put it? The scandalous terrain is grotty, propped-up constructs, eco-conscious, dirt colored. Is taking on something without wanting to substance or junk? "Sorry, not tonight..."

The invention of worship is over. So over. The topic is civility. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to Leitkultur, the treeway on a berm of civil-democratic toepaths with permissions reformed as disruptive presumptions built from a hedge belief in headwinds within and, as it were, without the unions. Civility can scar inhabitants but also lets us act like participants in marking time as though subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy. I know so little about the state and so much less, so here are the details. It was a place to ... what's this put up or shut up? It began with the airlines. Nice houses were somewhere. Let's remake this old classic with coffered ceilings into a dollhouse. When prices hurry down, everything will be felicitously stuccoed, ultimatums rephrased, and moral aspiration will again become footloose and empirically uncontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

A reminder, something I don't do often: but this is worth it. The Faux Chaps party this Friday, 6:30, at Jimmy's No. 43, 43 E. 7th (b. 2nd & 3rd Ave, nearer 2nd), NYC. Readers are Jeni "Truck" Olin, Stacy Szymaszek, Alan Davies, CAConrad, Brenda Iijima, moi-même. No cover. Organic foodstuffs. Good cheer.

Yeah, blandness is part of the problem. You impart numeric dicta slathered with near-imperatives for rationales. Freaked-out sublime — the immensity of your category rewards formalism and processes, mediocre-to-cool — unable to distinguish between dissimilarity slanted toward the news in poetics and semi-autistic subdivisions. Everything you say seems brute-accented. Love, Mom.

Emily Lloyd, aka elloyd74 on Twitter, is among the most visually-webby of poetics bloggers. Au courantly so. Here are two "ecards" of her own design and, between them, two pickups from A2591 and Bookninja, all of which I uploaded from her poesy galore —

Absent 3 looks all there.

Yeah, sir! James Cromwell as H. W. Richard Dreyfus as a peptic Cheney. "...creeps around...sneers," Manohla Dargis says in Friday's Times. What else can Dreyfus do, playing the sneering creep of our era? But it's the women who are going to drive me to Oliver Stone's newest fib / fable W. A "tightly smiling" Thandie Newton as Condoleeza frinking Rice and, and — four paws up! — Ellen Burstyn as Barbara. Are you holding me spellbound, Ellen Burstyn? What a weekend. Tony Towle and I read at Zinc on Sunday, and Ellen Burstyn as Barbara at a theater near you. Now.

Here's a gloss like small-group strings' accompaniment to Assisi School in the post, below.

I'm not claiming a particualr status for Boston. Far from it. I've filed for divorce from the quaintness that Boston has something going for it vis à vis poetry. To the contrary, institutional forces indifferent to poetics bear down on artists. You can't live and work here and not have, broadly speaking, academia, biomedicine, classical music, and funds management seep into your conversations. Speaking socio-strategically, most professions outrank esthetic practices, excepting classical music. Watching only a handful of poets negotiate these pressures is hardly a picnic. Something like public defensiveness if not a sense of inferiority fucks up the intensity of the writerly experience and the comity among writers. John Wieners had traveled but came back to the hermitage to wrestle with this conundrum directly in his work and in his life about Boston. Frank O'Hara, whom I did not watch personally, grew up around here and got his bachelor's locally and then fled to happier ground to exercise what he knew as his gifts of intelligence and feelings in front of people who would find him important and necessary to their lives.

What marks both poets as central exemplars of the Assisi School is their battle with warmth (or, better, kinds of empathy) and calculation. That is the battle of the moment living around here, and more and more living most anywhere. In postcapitalist, professionalized strata, how does the poet find combustible matter, a knowledge base and emotional understanding to come out with an esthetics and a life adequate for others to peruse and enjoy.

Only two years dead, Clare of Assisi was canonized. Saint Clare had an inside track based as she and Francis were in the tree- and shrub-lined exurbs of Perugia, north of San Vitale. This may not surprise you, where I'm headed.

Without fog, there's still Boston, my Assisi, but it wouldn't be beautiful. Helicopters would not be burden-sharing, or stay solid and in-waiting for the radiance to take hold like emulsion.

A smirk, where do you come from? Not now. Boston is this place, the glow is not ours. To donor offspring ownership is sweet. The fourth wall grimaces as nonthreatening nonpersonalities play the margins. Here alone smart youth can drink martinis and not change the world.

But I can't promise tomorrow, either; the glow rather than the town needs me as a fashion czar. You crazy bastard.

All we did was tie up our golf ball fluid.

Activity-oriented=adaptable=outgoing

— keepsakes sifted, carefully drawing blood and red horizontal dings called the crawl

EVEN IF WE ASSUME THE BOWL GOT BRUISED

Henry James was like everyone else among ten free trades off of beer. And I have beer.

You hate this city, admit it — I for sure abhor inhabiting its pleasure to float up from 19th century authenticity, the college town as social lab, its social advertising, a meta-parody leaning out of
 story life and stoic defense of deformed drapery blowing over grandpa's armchair and blueprints. It's ad hoc as showcase, national calculated effortlessness, nothing political. The cheesy symphonic repertoire 
can play on, separate and intensify things I'm going to skip.

Allegory prevails in a climate when stress and oppression predominate. Like the last 100 years. Then, how white Wallace Stevens — not from physical Boston but he went to school here — finds it easy to enter darkness in voices of color, never finding ways to distance himself from it, from them. Second, Stevensesque or Stevensian John Ashbery, another non-native Bostonian who went to Harvard, shows how you distance self from distancing self for perpetual cartouche and slap-party disquiet. Central to all this it's the smacked sick love puppy that keeps yelping through the poems and life-allegories of Worcester's Frank O'Hara, Cambridge's Eileen Myles, and blushing Ted Berrigan, who came from Providence, which is almost here, to call up a sad-happy trio of voices lent to us. Assisi School voices that I keep reading.

This gets me to the allegory of enormous warmth, the thing I'm missing the most. Eileen typifies it. Magnifies it. She loves us, including many she disdains. (In comparison, I squeeze disdain out of those I love. How awkward!) Who else radiates puppy warmth. Boston's John Wieners, except he doesn't love himself enough. Edwin Denby, not from here but having the glow, recursively. We need to feed on O'Hara to go back to how loving Denby's poetry is. After that, I think it's parts of us — or you — that share the burn in the glow. But Eileen is unsurpassed.

FAUX CHAPS PARTY
Friday, Oct. 24
6:30

Jimmy's No. 43
43 E. 7th St. (b. 2nd & 3rd Ave.)
NYC

Celebrating the publication of six new books.

The Pill Book — Jeni "Truck" Olin
Orizaba — Stacy Szymaszek
Odes — Alan Davies
Pathologies — Jack Kimball
(Soma)tic Midge — CAConrad
Subsistence Equipment — Brenda Iijima

Short readings by the authors.

No cover. Organic snacks.
Cheap drinks. Book deals.

Spam from Prada and Ryan's Pharmacy. Hobart Natalie, Anatoly Percy, and King Gadi. Rowena, Kermit, Mosso's, and Jozef Jill. Keisha Jeffers (Robinson's great grandchild), Clarance Raymona, Hans Jacky, Leticia Lundy, John-David Ira, Bjorne Cameron (David's other), et al.

Knowing we live forever like offspring of Saxon brutes
He thought about SciFi from the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties
Fighting the relative fight to endure
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
As if meeting death half-way hapless (though deceitful)
The kind of greenish pallor you'd desired

He thought about SciFi from the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties
As the clay-toned physique turns from the window
Fighting before we understood the beloved's desires
His coat with the fired bullet, effluvia
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
Temporal as this shitty two-room with its simultaneity

As the clay-toned physique turns from the window
A bright light credited to chimera in a purified labyrinth
At the end of the greatest fluorescent tube
The kind of greenish pallor you'd desired
Fighting the relative fight to endure
A silver psycho-mist hung along the streets

A bright light credited to chimera in a purified labyrinth
The luminous tints of reversed decisions or rotating surf
The kind of greenish pallor you'd desired
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
A chestnut vendor stood holding out to her
His coat with the fired bullet in it, effluvia

Temporal as this shitty two-room with its simultaneity
To grow another heart in different tempi
At the end of the greatest fluorescent tube
As the clay-toned physique turns from the window
A silver psycho-mist hung along the streets
Fighting before we understood the beloved's desires

To grow another heart in different tempi
A chestnut vendor stood holding out to her
The kind of greenish pallor you'd desired
He thought about SciFi from the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
Going hippie to make a connection

A chestnut vendor stood holding out to her
A silver psycho-mist hung along the streets
As if meeting death half-way hapless (though deceitful)
Knowing we live forever like offspring of Saxon brutes
Going hippie to make a connection
The luminous tints of reversed decisions or rotating surf.

Part 2 [Part 1 here]

Kim Lyons
Pierre Menard Gallery, Cambridge
Sept. 28

Kim Lyons was the third reader at Pierre Menard last week, following Geoff Olsen and Jess Mynes. Kim read unpublished pieces as well as poems in Photothérapique (Katalaché & Portable Presses 2008). Kim's work twists soluble lengths of her neighborhoods, Brooklyn and downtown, transmuting "combustion / ripped from cosmic / calm into unease" within a space-time inventory of uninhibited, sonorous propositions. She feels "bodegas / look fascinating in the wired telepathy," and we incredulously grant she has the chops to throw more our way. On a visit "to the aqua ventilators" she pours out the "salt concealed in the ventricles," to "compel the shadows to fill / in the sequential jolts, which are transactions / binding adulation." Her wintry deal throws in "lustrous geometries" with the jolts and something else "like a diaphanous / shovel plunging into the drifts of mauve," throwing her voice, in other words, and keeping it up as "the residue of a body / a stick crashing through thin ice / then hangs as a transparence."

"Cement is the color of thinking," Kim argues, but this is conceptual punning merely to make sensible detail concrete, a pun of this sort one of her empurpled tricks with mirrors "tucked in […] black silk" inside her boîte à outils. Oh, thérapique. Kim is so New York, she's free to pen "dawn comes in a ballerina skirt," dispatch it directly to Breton and Soupault in the same breath, then climb into a stretch limo for a drive by the Seine, and, most violet, break down and finally admit her mirror and, perhaps, her "wallet with an odor of earwax" are "made in France." Kim is on a fully elaborated tear via which she revisits any topic in bursts of expository precision. Well, yes, thinking is like cement, but it's also "Chalky and molecular" on an inclined plane where, to fulfill the syllogism, Kim intuits "thoughts are the wedge." The fluid argumentative force of the prose translations beneath the verse in The Penguin Book of French Poetry: 1820-1950 has seeded the New York School, according to poet Larry Fagin, publisher of first-, second- and third-generations. The tradition, if you will, requires deployment and advancement of similar exposition in the now, today, a particular place, a particular time. In the poem titled "DNA" Kim spots a waiter at 4:00 a.m. who serves her almond milk in a scallop shell, brings it "to my lips to drink / but I can't figure out his face." We can see what the poet cannot see, "I can't figure out his face or / fix on his ultimate cohesion." With ultimate cohesion Kim moves us from the physical to physics and the psychological, and what we need next is the why: "because a woman inside a bathroom lit by a candle / says the middle son is between male and female." Every detail is in the now moving forward, the candle, the woman lit by the candle, the fact that the waiter is a middle son; nothing is ornamental. The poem concludes in no sense elegiacally, but partakes of the force behind elegy and behind argument through which questioning or thinking, the wedge, indeed changes everything on visible and invisible planes. The mother of the middle son is still in the bathroom.

She puts her finger to her mouth
she's formless also as though the
DNA is a letter
such a messenger as this delivers
is he then an angel, this waiter with a silver tray,
or an attendant to something else, a project
a scheme larger than death?

One could hardly care about a feeble tertiary borrowing. Pepper and vanilla icing, a freezing outdoor terrace, no cake.

~~

Then again — I'm hooked on figurative exposition. Maybe, inspired by Issue 1's stockpile, the vowelmovers are striking out for this, the rockiest and most forlorn of isles — parody of parody — to portray frontally self-effacing dwarf complexities and transgressive contradictions of melancholic ambition.

~~

Tape both of my hands together. And grease-pencil trompe l'oeil on my forehead. Please.

This work dialogs with others.

X subverts expectations.

Y understands perfectionism is in error.

To appropriate is to provoke.

The ephemeral triumphs.

A parody pays homage to its subject. Pass the white gloves.

Y gestures toward emptiness, embraces it.

Z's funky penumbra is influenced by street-life needlepoint and other class resentments.

These poems sound like New York, laced with the foam of the Frankfurt School and science fiction.

Z uses his communication with friends on the internet. Inky musculature evokes nighttime.

Y's pornographic turns are cheesy but rush us back into space. Oceans and deserts.

The piece is layered with political and gender-specific overtones. Big, tall, slim, erect.

We can feel X's mind move. Like a wheelbarrow reveling in bubbly rain, uncanniest on Halloween.

Value is contingent. Nudes mean more when their heads are chopped.

Meaning is garbled when it's least derivative. There's nothing like sex in inner cities.

Z questions conventions, boundaries, and syntax. Z exits. Yay.

Y's is a dissonance born of necessity, the poetry reflecting the gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence. Oooo she's discovered her voice.

It's impossible to separate the performance from the text; both are adolescent in the good sense. Ring, bitch.

X's deadpan is signature postmodern self-reflection unsettling socio-economic truisms. Ultra blurry and anamorphic.

The signs point to abstraction. Dad knew best.

Discursive meditation on a rhetorical bombshell: She's so like Bush.

First, happy to report the skin grafts and mind melds are now complete, and it can now be predicted John McCain, who is not really the John McCain we knew, will blow tonight's town hall, too cantankerous because he can't help himself, because he is not himself.

Another thing. As we roll into the intrepid stages of the shit-throwing countdown to test values-voters' faith in conditioned response, McCain-Palin are showing their head game colors, the dark scrum-infused hues of Atwater-Rove. This is not news, but that's what's left in the campaigner-trumps-elite-terrorist arsenal. This is that third term Bush I, Barbara, Bush II and maybe even Laura were shooting for, only it's Cheney-Bush, the folk mavericks reversed. These guys are not the least bit modulated by original thought beyond slogans, reform, country, attack, and, yes, my friends, contrary to what you've been told Cheney has decided to seek the presidency after all. He's disguised himself, via the body snatcher method, as a more heroic deliberator, the neo John McCain with a fresh, richer distaff heiress (who auditioned for and almost got a part in Stepford Wives); betcha Bush II, trans-gendered now as Palin, is glad to go along, full of the running mate and offspring's talented wink and made-up-entitled pride and standing next to a rather dashing separatist-rightwing Alaskan dude wildcatter of a partner with whom to plot vengeance and take up drink. Again.

Issue 1: If your name is included, it's a zero sum. You are not in the um anthology. Your name is. And what, master, is a name? Or in a name? Let's turn to Issue 1's three researchers and two editors. Here's what I've culled from 30 minutes of The Google.

1) Vladimir Zykov (researcher) is a freelance programmer and web designer (username: "tmurakami" @ getafreelancer.com). Among his biodata, we learn he's been involved in

The Semantic GrowBag Project at L3S Research Center of the University of Hannover, Germany, [which] uses the keywords provided in metadata annotations of digital objects collections to automatically create light-weight topic categorization systems. Using such emergent semantics enables an alternative way to filter large result sets according to the objects' content without the need to manually classify all objects with respect to a pre-specified vocabulary.

2) Stephen McLaughlin (researcher and co-editor), UPenn-affiliated, based now in Rotterdam, operates a Phillie language and sound archive @ arsonism.org; he posts wry poetic parodies @ rakedepot.blogspot.com; and he blogs @ arsonisnoway.livejournal.com (among his entries there, his notes to "indiefucks" are appealing). You can find McLaughlin's clarification related to his project cited in Kenneth Goldsmith's harriet entry (10/5). Here's a section.

I started a collection of poet names. Once I had around 1500, I asked my friend Jim Carpenter to send me a batch of 5,000 poems composed by Erika T. Carter, his ludicrously advanced poetry generation software. These poems aren't simply random cutups of randomly selected texts. As you can see by reading them, they each have a thematic & stylistic unity unparalleled (so far as I know) in the field of algorithmic poetry generation. As numerous commenters [sic] have noted, it's difficult to tell whether some of these things were written by man or machine. Surprisingly, many of the poems in the magazine are actually 'good.' Sort of.

3) Gregory Laynor (researcher) has left fewer techie crumbs on the G-trail, so far, but I like his nonplussed reading of Wallace Stevens @ http://www.forgodot.com/theideaoforderatkeywest/ideaoforder_10.mp3 — [Ok, Gregory Laynor just informed me in an email that he has taken down the Stevens sound file (which I thought was a challenging and deft interpretation of Stevens), but Gregory suggests another set of files in which he performs Gertrude Stein's The Making of Americans @ http://www.ubu.com/sound/stein-moa.html].

4) Jim Carpenter (co-editor) teaches programming and software design at the Wharton School. As McLaughlin notes, Carpenter invented Erica T. Carter, an innovative set of algorithms for poem generation. Carpenter quotes Charles Bukowski for inspiration: "poetry is still the biggest snob-racket in the Arts with little poet groups battling for power." Ahem. At the Erica T. Carter website (http://etc.wharton.upenn.edu:8080/Etc3beta/About.jsp) Carpenter explains his purpose, at first, was "to learn whether machine-generated poems could compete in the marketplace with the poems of blooded authors. (They can.)" His research aim "has evolved into an aesthetic proposition: That the MACHINE is a legitimate methodology for artistic expression."

Issue 1 is a bona fide collective prosthetic arifact. The project as it were is code. It has a sense of humor and reflects hunger for easy profit — similar in these respects to a good fraction of art products reared within the late capitalist fold.

I anticipate a critical continuum in response to Issue 1 along these (postDeluezian) lines: ha-haa-drivel / drivel-aah-ah.

I'm coming to see the need for a dude balance between index and representation.

We'll presume you are savoring or will soon savor Kevin Killian on Orono 2008 over at Belladodie (that's dodie-bellamy.blogspot.com). As of today he's up to Part 7. He's making the good guys familiar.

~~

And today, 10/2, Dennis Cooper (denniscooper-theweaklings.blogspot.com) has a roundup on John Ashbery. Links to objects and material even poetry bloodhounds will find unusual and useful.

Geoffrey Olsen, Jess Mynes, Kim Lyons
Pierre Menard Gallery, Cambridge
Sept. 28

It's safe to come outdoors. If the heavy, emphatic, indoor chill attending textuality since language and even postlanguage has gotten under the skin, Geoffrey Olsen, Jess Mynes, and Kim Lyons show how to take it outside.

Geoffrey Olsen read his End Notebook (Petrichord Books 2008) and from the start you feel sensory alternatives to standalone bricolage and discontinuity. His book and his reading lift off by replaying Philip Whalen's Vietnam War era "The War," a heated notebook piece itself in which "instant / weird language" is rendered as vulnerable "forest growth, death around / the ocean." Geoffrey's poetry takes in damaged goods of the city and the underground, "the red dumpster," "a subway singer begging...occupying two distinct realities." These up-and-down distinctions of Geoffrey's materialize from the lyric impulse as it is interrupted by and in turn interrupts the susceptibilities of "flippancy as defense." His is an urban postlanguage devouring itself within "Pulchritude / diastole / amend amid glaze / heart       break. a choice." Other choices and distinctions for Geoffrey return to Whalen (whose influence is palpable), a phenomenal world of growth trumping (and trumpeting) death, since as Geoffrey notes, chagrin can be "held under" at least for the moment, while vines clamber "against the wall apartment." And so goes the exterior city where the running of the subway appositely parallels a "branch in the wind."

Jess Mynes sports the same team letters as Geoffrey's, beginning If and When (Katalanché 2008) with natural environment-infused epigraphs from three mid-century influences, Joseph Ceravolo, Richard Caddel, and Louis Zukofsky. Jess homes in on rural Massachusetts, mosquitoes, forsythia, "a gate left open," skies with things falling that should fall, "ice everywhere," tulips, puckers, the "spindly necked / stagger of ferns." So the outdoors is absolute fodder, but Jess wants more. He joins a tradition. He weaves in more and more poetry champs, James Schuyler, Basil Bunting, Christopher Rizzo, Aaron Tieger, as if Jess were socializing as well as living purely empirically, hosting a set of word-dizzy fellows of the wood given to measurement of "a bee's bumble" or the "mauled petal inverted / circles as in / a radar whirr." More remarkable, Jess also takes the tradition all the way to in, his insides, transforming the outdoors into bodily reflections, a "shape / I carry." Jess asserts, "no tree exists by inertia," and precedes this with an imagined torpor emerging from his senses:

I have your moan upon my
skin the whole
ghost of it

A more apparent instance of Jess's internal reflection of nature comes within his first poem, anatomically titled, "tibia fibula femur." Here Jess wisely demarks his limits as a chartist, partly blindsided by what he's plotting, partly in sight of and inspired by the receptive state that's prerequisite for more:

if my direction is
only holding the
map and for the
single chance to run
there is just a phenomena
of bleeding trees

my o let me be still

            there this thing recovers me

[Part 2 here.]

It's pajamas? pyjamas? I never wear them. I'm too busy entertaining acrobats, evoking various moods, you know, all of them, whatever is in front of me. Alaska is no backwater. We got media for enhanced abandonment pressing new specimens. This is my longwinded prelim for saying how frinking it is to have this back blogging.