Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow is tomorrow, so I’m not dealing with tomorrow today; I’ll live through tomorrow tomorrow, but today is today–a day like any other and not special at all–and so I will care about and write about whatever I want to. Tomorrow has an agenda, but today is for us. Today is free. Like birds and shit.
You all right, buddy?
Yes, but mostly the holiday. It’s exhausting. I can’t write about that fucking show any more than I already have, and I refuse to do it.
But the nice people will be expecting it.
The nice people were expecting to have gotten used to saying “Madam President” by now. Let ’em keep expecting things and see how happy it makes ’em.
Oh, good. A moody Sunday night raging against the dying of the choogle.
No one appreciates me. Where’s my box set?
I want a box set. I want an expansive collection of my greatest hits and dick jokes in a fancy package, and I want Nicholas von Meriweather to write the liner notes, and then I want to not buy it and download it illegally.
And I want Mexico to pay for it.
Oh, tonight’s gonna be fun.
People want to read about the Cornell box set, then they can read what the great Jesse Jarnow wrote in Pitchfork. I agree with everything he says; he has my May ’77 proxy.
Only a 9.0?
The editors come up with those numbers. We all know Jesse would have given it a 10.
What was the last thing Pitchfork gave a 10 to?
Kendrick Lamar’s outgoing answering machine message.