Barton Hall at Cornell University is one of the Seven Mystical Wonders of the World; not only is it a mid-sized hall with shitty acoustics for privileged children who couldn’t get into Yale, but also the Shfincter of Sherfa’glasz, from with the Abandoned Gods extrude their way into our dimension.
On May 8th, 1977, such a God was extruded.
No. Try again and with not so many made-up and/or imaginatively capitalized words.
…
As usual, Big Dead conspires against us to withhold the truth: there was no 5/8/77 show. The facts are these: the Scarlet>Fire is clearly from February of ’78, the Morning Dew is from 8/2/76 – a show, a show, a show which we have been LIED TO about for YEARS by reptile people MASQUERADING as Canadians; the lie is that THERE WAS NO SOUNDBOARD but there WAS: it was on the CORNELL TAPE that the CIA has used for YEARS as the HOLD MUSIC on their phones.
ATTICA. ATTICA
Jesus, knock it off. I mean: really, man.
I was going to tell the nice people about how the Jews were involved.
Yeah, I know you were, but let’s don’t, huh?
Aw.
Yeah, you’re a tough batch o’ pudding. You’ll snap back. Wanna try again?
Sure.
…
This is the part where I blather on about DeLillo or metafiction and metanonfiction and the impossibility of unseeing something. There very well could be nonsense about baggage of belief; I am entirely capable of referring to an object’s level of “thingness” and will certainly use quotations to denote that I am being clever.
Can any contest not involving a set distance and a timer be judged? Does the label of Best Evar preclude any logical thought or criticism thereafter? Furthermore, is any and all said thought and/or criticism not inherently about the status of bestness, and not about the music? Can this show simply be listened to anymore? These are questions I will ask, because I am just about the worst.
Dick joke, dick joke, dick joke; a reference to Betty Canter-Jackson and her recordings.
Harrumph.
Hey, I got a “harrumph” out of that guy!
Did you go triple-meta on that one?
Yes. And now, if you’ll notice, I’m talking to myself.
Yes. Wow. Your head is completely up your ass, yeah.
It’s warm and quiet.
Try again?
Okay. How about one of those lists?
You love those.
Everybody does.
Sure they do.
…
Metals that Cornell Would Smelt, due to the Show’s Hotness Levels:
- Bronze.
- Iron.
- Copper.
- Aluminum.
- Silver.
I’m sorry, but you need to stop doing this. There’s nothing here and you’re doing it on purpose to bother the nice people.
I was getting to the jokes.
Such as?
Some of the metals have absurd and laugh-generating names. Manganese? Get the fuck out of here, manganese.
I hate you.
Molybdenum. Seriously? Who does that with letters?
And the premise doesn’t even make sense: is it that the show was melting stuff?
No. What I said was, “Were the levels of rock and roll good-time party juice translated into units of heat, and you had a foundry or a smithy or something of that nature at that measured unit of heat, then these transition metals would transition, or ‘smelt.”
Still makes no sense.
When metal melts, it smelts.
I don’t think that’s precisely right.
It’s a mystery, I guess.
One more time?
Sure.
…
What are you going to do, not listen to 5/8/77? One of those types, huh? Knew a fucker like you in grade school.
Weird Wally.
Pity the Weird Wallies of the world; he had a rough time. “No, I won’t,” Weird Wally said about the things everybody was doing; “No, I don’t,” he said about the things everyone liked. There were rebels, who marched to the beat of their own drummer, and then there was Weird Wally, who had long since stabbed his drummer and now wore the drummer’s skin as a warning to other drummers.
Don’t be a Weird Wally. He lives under a bridge now, and not even a nice bridge. When he makes water, rats laugh at his wiener.
But, he makes his own schedule. Weird Wally is his own man; he is an island, and he has his integrity.
Fuck Weird Wally: join the club. People are nice, sometimes. Listen to Cornell tonight. Everyone’s doing it.
That one was okay.
Yeah.
True story: my great-great-grandfather’s first 2 names were Barton and Hall, in that order. And he was born in upstate New York, not too far from Ithaca. And he was a USA Army chaplain with General Sherman and accompanied Sherman on his March to the Sea.
All true.
I’m not going to post his surname here lest some future genealogist find this post and commit his poor life to attempting to figure out what all the nonsense above means.
A man of God on the March to the Sea.
Now, there’s a story.
Yep. Isn’t that what Army chaplains are for?
From now, I will attempt to use the phrase ‘Did you go triple-meta on that one?’ at any possible opportunity.
Like, like, likety-like.
Never got a “likety-like” before. Gawsh.