Lovely, all of you, simply lovely; thank you, especially those who seem to have made a habit of tossing dimes into my hat. I’m reminded of the words of the Buddha:
The surest way to Nirvana is by giving money to people writing comic novels.
And then the Buddha did see the statues depicting him, and he said,
Christ, I’m getting fat as a hog.
Was anyone gonna tell me?
None of you fuckers ever tell me the truth.
I got a whole office full of Yes Boddhisatvas.
Minutes.! To MIIIIII-IIIDnight!
Scream for me, Rio.
(In honor, of course, of the Doomsday Clock’s minute hand advancing, placing us closer to annihilation than any time since the Mutually Assured Destruction of the Cold War. Nuclear war: terrible, but metal as fuck.)
This is Ursula Le Guin’s translation of Lao Tzu’s Tao te Ching. She died the other day
Gregory Hays’ translation of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. He’s still alive. (Gregory, not Marcus. Marcus Aurelius died at the end of the first act of Gladiator.)
Both books tell you to shut the fuck up and do your work. More books should carry that message.
This tab has been open for six weeks. Check the date; I ain’t lying to you. That dumbfuck Trumplover from Buffalo, Something Caputo, is still looking for his white whale–excuse me: his Norwegian whale–in the form of a tape that doesn’t exist: 3/17/70 at the Kleinhans Music Hall, at which the Dead jammed with the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra. Reward’s up to $2,000.
Now, the show certainly and provably happened: there are newspaper reviews and multiple corroborating eyewitness reports. But no band recording was made–Bear was in prison at the time–and Buffalo was a bit far for the New York City taper scene, so there was no audience recording, either.
I’m shocked–shocked–a Trump supporter believes something that isn’t true. Shocked, I tells ya.
(Again, I repeat my offer: let’s rip this fucker off. I know a couple of you are musicians, and must have some editing software loaded up in your computing machines. Mix together some Feedback with some avant-garde symphonic bullshit, segue it into Sugar Magnolias, and cash that check. I get a ten percent finder’s fee.)
I don’t have the energy to mock this. Here, read the description of one of the artist’s gallery shows, and pretend I wrote it. I assure you that it is just as funny as anything I’d come up with.
There’s a tenth level to Hell. Dante wrote about nine, but there are ten. I give you Jam Cruise: Imagine an Umphrey’s McGee concert. Now imagine that you couldn’t leave. This is the essence of Jam Cruise. You, several thousand other white people, and Karl Denson are squeezed onto a–quite frankly–rinky-dink little cruise ship along with several celebrity chefs, all of whom have tattoos of cleavers and pigs on their forearms and necks, and representatives of multiple craft brewers that are all secretly owned by InBev.
There are also jam bands. And they shall jam. O, shall they jam. Don’t believe me? Look at this bullshit.
Did you look at that bullshit? The guy on the left? Jesus? He just wanted to go to the buffet and chow down on some heady crab legs, but now he’s blocked by Young & In The Way.
There is jamming in locations where there should not be jamming. I present further bullshit:
I don’t think passengers are even supposed to be in that part of the boat; it looks functional.
Maybe a little yoga would clear the mind, loosen the limbs. Quiet, and peaceful, and–
–GODDAMMIT, THERE’S NO ESCAPE. You will be jammed at on the Lido Deck. You will be jammed at in the IPA tastings. You will be jammed at during your conversations about cryptocurrency. Go back to your room, I dare you: Twiddle’s there. Jam is all there is. Jam is all that will be. Jam, my brothers and sisters and Karl Denson, jam.
He loved Jam Cruise.