Your pilgrim: Wrote Code. He did, blatantly, and in front of god and everybody, because he is such a shameless blatant programmer-writer, who loves programming and coding and writing and stuff.
Further, he wrote Lots Of It. (Also, Said code is really good, because your pilgrim Wrote It.)
Further, your pilgrim has been doing it, this code-writing, at big urgent fevered fun creative pace, since like last Thursday.
Anyways ... fun, good, stuff. I think it might work. So, happies, and stuff ...
Good thing I finished my First Collection of Poems in late November. So like, That's Done.
So, um, The End, and: I love you all.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Feel the love
In writing the hed, your pilgrim was being ironic, cuz what he really wants is: to be funny. Or clever. But also: Mock Those Who Deserve It.
I'm reminded of what Happy Bunny sez: "Hate is a just a *special* kind of love we give to people who suck." But don't waste time on hatin', y'all. Not even this guy, quoted below. (About and because of whom your pilgrim wrote all this.) Hate is for haters. Let them have it.
Anyway, Andrew Sullivan quotes this guy, filed under the Hathos Alert/Malkin Award:
No problem, dude, you squishy squeakee charmer you. Happy to be dead to you. Grateful, even. Truly.
Meantime: Live long and fester, man.
I'm wondering though, how far Mr Dondero is willing to take this. Would he, for example, fuck a pure conservative Republican woman, if said woman, who was willing to fuck him, had a mother or brother or half-sister, twice-removed, who voted for Obama? Or even marked an absentee ballot for the Kenyan Socialist Freedom Annihilator, but slept late, because poor and one of the *takers*, and did not get to the post office in time.
UPDATE: Your pilgrim swears, he does, that he conceived and typed and crafted and revised and Google-checked a quote and clicked the Publish button too, after reading Sully's post only, (and he might have been at his desk at his job) all of which was so totes before reading this on Wonkette, written by Editrix Extraordinaire Rebecca Schoenkopf, Esquire, whom your pilgrim luvs secretly and from afar.
Further, your pilgrim would never steal or copy cool funny stuff from her desmesne. (She knows what the word means. The rest of y'all, look it up. Or crack open your brit-lit anthology from college. It'll be in the second volume, Romantic Period.) No. Not without giving gushing praise and credit and all the Wonkers Gay Love I have for Her Editrix, and for all who slave happily too in the Employ of her Empire, which is communist, because she is Commie Girl, awesome daughter of Commie Mom the also awesome. Thursdays, she leads the happy workers in song, I hear.
No, your pilgrim, um, avers. I would only draw inspiration, with most proper linky-thing credit included in me post. (And afterwards maybe a thank-you note and invitation to tea some afternoon) All that, so's I can be: More Funniez. (Yo, Becks: Air Kiss!)
I'm reminded of what Happy Bunny sez: "Hate is a just a *special* kind of love we give to people who suck." But don't waste time on hatin', y'all. Not even this guy, quoted below. (About and because of whom your pilgrim wrote all this.) Hate is for haters. Let them have it.
Anyway, Andrew Sullivan quotes this guy, filed under the Hathos Alert/Malkin Award:
"All family and friends, even close family and friends, who I know to be Democrats are hereby dead to me. I vow never to speak to them again for the rest of my life, or have any communications with them. They are in short, the enemies of liberty. They deserve nothing less than hatred and utter contempt. I strongly urge all other libertarians to do the same. Are you married to someone who voted for Obama, have a girlfriend who voted 'O'. Divorce them. Break up with them without haste. Vow not to attend family functions, Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas for example, if there will be any family members in attendance who are Democrats," _ Eric Dondero, LibertarianRepublican.net.
No problem, dude, you squishy squeakee charmer you. Happy to be dead to you. Grateful, even. Truly.
Meantime: Live long and fester, man.
I'm wondering though, how far Mr Dondero is willing to take this. Would he, for example, fuck a pure conservative Republican woman, if said woman, who was willing to fuck him, had a mother or brother or half-sister, twice-removed, who voted for Obama? Or even marked an absentee ballot for the Kenyan Socialist Freedom Annihilator, but slept late, because poor and one of the *takers*, and did not get to the post office in time.
UPDATE: Your pilgrim swears, he does, that he conceived and typed and crafted and revised and Google-checked a quote and clicked the Publish button too, after reading Sully's post only, (and he might have been at his desk at his job) all of which was so totes before reading this on Wonkette, written by Editrix Extraordinaire Rebecca Schoenkopf, Esquire, whom your pilgrim luvs secretly and from afar.
Further, your pilgrim would never steal or copy cool funny stuff from her desmesne. (She knows what the word means. The rest of y'all, look it up. Or crack open your brit-lit anthology from college. It'll be in the second volume, Romantic Period.) No. Not without giving gushing praise and credit and all the Wonkers Gay Love I have for Her Editrix, and for all who slave happily too in the Employ of her Empire, which is communist, because she is Commie Girl, awesome daughter of Commie Mom the also awesome. Thursdays, she leads the happy workers in song, I hear.
No, your pilgrim, um, avers. I would only draw inspiration, with most proper linky-thing credit included in me post. (And afterwards maybe a thank-you note and invitation to tea some afternoon) All that, so's I can be: More Funniez. (Yo, Becks: Air Kiss!)
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Let us now Enjoy: Very Cool Words
So, your pilgrim has this Most Coolest Awesome-est Friend and Fellow Journalist-more-extraordinaire
Let us all pause now to say: Wow.
Lactation is the usual word for this amazing mammalian miracle. It's the term you will see in medical texts, and in the literature too from the La Leche League, there to help possibly anxious new mothers deal with problems, including physician/family/workplace/culture hostility to the Naked Breast-Baring Audacity of Nursing, which all mammals have always done, but which some in these latter days, have insisted is *so* not appropos for homo sapiens in civilization today. The La Leche lit would also have supportive sensitive advice on what to do about problems like nipple irritation, important stuff like that.
Anyways, all that is very important. But Your Pilgrim Wants Y'all to Know: There is this cooler, more awesome word for this most normal miracle: Galactopoesis.
Milk-making is the plain literal meaning. But we have our connotations of the constituent words, and therefore think more along the lines of Galaxy-Maker, or Galaxy-Poet.
Galactopoesis! How cool is that? Us writers and poets and dictionary-lovers so totally Eat This Stuff Up. (And sometimes we *decide* to write 'us' when we know perfectly well that the correct pronoun case to use is the nominative, not the objective.)
[S] is making milk. What are your superpowers?What my friend was doing, most naturally near automatically and most casually miraculously too, was lactating. As in, her mammary glands, known coarsely as Boobs, were: Making Milk, Making Nourishment for her own newly born child.
Let us all pause now to say: Wow.
Lactation is the usual word for this amazing mammalian miracle. It's the term you will see in medical texts, and in the literature too from the La Leche League, there to help possibly anxious new mothers deal with problems, including physician/family/workplace/culture hostility to the Naked Breast-Baring Audacity of Nursing, which all mammals have always done, but which some in these latter days, have insisted is *so* not appropos for homo sapiens in civilization today. The La Leche lit would also have supportive sensitive advice on what to do about problems like nipple irritation, important stuff like that.
Anyways, all that is very important. But Your Pilgrim Wants Y'all to Know: There is this cooler, more awesome word for this most normal miracle: Galactopoesis.
Milk-making is the plain literal meaning. But we have our connotations of the constituent words, and therefore think more along the lines of Galaxy-Maker, or Galaxy-Poet.
As
astronomy developed, there were fuzzy white patches increasingly observed in
the sky. Their census grew in number and detail, as observers' optics developed. Through it all, the
metaphor persisted, because it stayed so ineluctable to the observers and cataloguers: Wow: This is so Milky. Hence: galaxy, galactic. [source: Your Pilgrim. Ha!]
Loves me the modern world, I do
Comes now your pilgrim, who affirms and attests, and types on keyboard also, and such significant shit like that:
Around the time relevant when I composed and typed this post: My Android phone, which fits in my pocket, and sleeps by my side at night, charging, was awesomely effortlessly doing the following:
Writing This Post. Important Stuff Like That.
How Cool is that?
The End.
Around the time relevant when I composed and typed this post: My Android phone, which fits in my pocket, and sleeps by my side at night, charging, was awesomely effortlessly doing the following:
- Giving access to the worldwide intertubes: for my computer and for Marcia's, here at your pilgrim's home, at Rock Creek & P.
- Pushing me favorite stored music to me ears, via that wireless modern also-miracle known as Bluetooth, which I totes Cranked to the Limit. (Alas. Bluetooth does not go all the way to: Eleven.)
- Oh, it counted down also the cook-time on the pasta I'd started in me kitchen here.
- Other miscellaneous ongoing background miracles of which your pilgrim might have been unaware, but he acknowledges gladly, readily, is most grateful for.
Writing This Post. Important Stuff Like That.
How Cool is that?
The End.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Let us now praise famous guitarists: Eric Johnson
Here is Eric Johnson performing "Cliffs of Dover" on Austin City Limits, 1988.
There are many Eric Johnson performances of this song, my favorite of his, to be found on the intertubes, and I have watched and studied them all, but this one tops my list.
Your pilgrim has studied avidly and practiced the song, of course, and can even imagine putting together a respectable performance, given world enough and time. But: Your pilgrim does not mind telling you: To be able to play this way, so awesomely, I would be *tempted* to make that deal Robert Johnson did, as legend has it, down at the Crossroads.
Also, don't mind tellin ya: Wow. So handsome.
There are many Eric Johnson performances of this song, my favorite of his, to be found on the intertubes, and I have watched and studied them all, but this one tops my list.
Your pilgrim has studied avidly and practiced the song, of course, and can even imagine putting together a respectable performance, given world enough and time. But: Your pilgrim does not mind telling you: To be able to play this way, so awesomely, I would be *tempted* to make that deal Robert Johnson did, as legend has it, down at the Crossroads.
Also, don't mind tellin ya: Wow. So handsome.
My interview with the world, which never interviewed me
Q: What three writers from any time or place would you invite for an evening of drink and dinner and conversation?
A: That's easy: Sappho, Elizabeth Bishop and um, hold on, gimme time, and ...
Q: Interesting.
A: Yeah, thanks, sure. Don't feign sincerity and interest with me
Q: You're right. Sorry.
A: And James Joyce and Annie Dillard. And Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and Nora Ephron, too, because I so wish they hadn't died. And Mitch Hedberg, because he was so funny and so sweet, and I so wish he hadn't died.
Q: The question was three writers.
A: I know. I changed it.
Q: You can't do that.
A: Yes I can. I'm the one writing the questions, remember?
Q: Oh, right. Carry on then.
A: I shall. Gerard Manley Hopkins and John Keats. And Sappho gets to bring her girlfriends, including Erica Jong.
Q: Girlfriends?
A: Yes. I believe she invented the word, in the sense that women use it today, as in "Girls Night Out," and "The Five Girlfriends Every Woman Must Have ..." It's attested in this quotation, numbered 160 by Lobel-Page. It's basically a usage gloss by the writer Athenaios, who says
Q: Hold on, *You* translate? Like from Greek?
A: Yes, from Greek. Yes I do. Sappho wrote in the dialect known as Aeolic. The translating of her barely surviving ouevre is a big part currently of my life's work. Anyway, I translate the fragment this way:
Q: Barnstone didn't do it that way.
A: No, he didn't. But I did. My rendering is more like Anne Carson (2002). And it follows the word order a bit more closely. Always a hazard because it strains the limits of English syntax, which relies more on word order than does Greek, an inflected language.
Q: OK. But back to your guest list. So it's a party, then.
A: Yes it is, yes it is. But if Joyce gets too plastered, I'm cuttin' him off.
Q: Your list has more women than men. Why?
A: Easy: I like women more than men.
Q: I see.
A: Hey! Warned you about faking. Anyways, I included Joyce, despite my concern that he might be a bit too abrasive, too unmodernly un-reconstructed for the 21st century. Mitch, however, I'd expect to be a perfect polite unthreatening non-creepy gentleman, and that all the women at the table would love him, as I do.
Q: Wait. You *love* Mitch Hedberg?
A: Yes, I do.
Q: But, he's like, a guy.
A: So?
Q: What about Joyce?
A: Love only his work.
Q: Any other loves to profess?
A: Certainly. Thanks for asking.
Q: Hey! Self-congratulating, are we?
A: You're right. So, carrying on: I love Sappho and all her girlfriends, and Ms Bishop and Ms Dillard. Don't know Ms Plath and Ms Sexton well enough, so not sure yet. But knowing me, as the evening concludes and everyone gathers coats and belongings and checks purses to make sure they have cab fare, plus tip, back to the afterlife, I'd be gushing to both of them: I love you.
Q: Well then, let's end it here.
A: No, let's not. We'll keep it going, and post another day.
A: That's easy: Sappho, Elizabeth Bishop and um, hold on, gimme time, and ...
Q: Interesting.
A: Yeah, thanks, sure. Don't feign sincerity and interest with me
Q: You're right. Sorry.
A: And James Joyce and Annie Dillard. And Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and Nora Ephron, too, because I so wish they hadn't died. And Mitch Hedberg, because he was so funny and so sweet, and I so wish he hadn't died.
Q: The question was three writers.
A: I know. I changed it.
Q: You can't do that.
A: Yes I can. I'm the one writing the questions, remember?
Q: Oh, right. Carry on then.
A: I shall. Gerard Manley Hopkins and John Keats. And Sappho gets to bring her girlfriends, including Erica Jong.
Q: Girlfriends?
A: Yes. I believe she invented the word, in the sense that women use it today, as in "Girls Night Out," and "The Five Girlfriends Every Woman Must Have ..." It's attested in this quotation, numbered 160 by Lobel-Page. It's basically a usage gloss by the writer Athenaios, who says
And now freeborn women and virgins call their intimate friends *hetairai* as Sappho does in this passage:Athenaios then quotes Sappho, which I translate this way ...
Q: Hold on, *You* translate? Like from Greek?
A: Yes, from Greek. Yes I do. Sappho wrote in the dialect known as Aeolic. The translating of her barely surviving ouevre is a big part currently of my life's work. Anyway, I translate the fragment this way:
Of these things now, for my girlfriends dear, of delight beautifully I shall sing.
Q: Barnstone didn't do it that way.
A: No, he didn't. But I did. My rendering is more like Anne Carson (2002). And it follows the word order a bit more closely. Always a hazard because it strains the limits of English syntax, which relies more on word order than does Greek, an inflected language.
Q: OK. But back to your guest list. So it's a party, then.
A: Yes it is, yes it is. But if Joyce gets too plastered, I'm cuttin' him off.
Q: Your list has more women than men. Why?
A: Easy: I like women more than men.
Q: I see.
A: Hey! Warned you about faking. Anyways, I included Joyce, despite my concern that he might be a bit too abrasive, too unmodernly un-reconstructed for the 21st century. Mitch, however, I'd expect to be a perfect polite unthreatening non-creepy gentleman, and that all the women at the table would love him, as I do.
Q: Wait. You *love* Mitch Hedberg?
A: Yes, I do.
Q: But, he's like, a guy.
A: So?
Q: What about Joyce?
A: Love only his work.
Q: Any other loves to profess?
A: Certainly. Thanks for asking.
Q: Hey! Self-congratulating, are we?
A: You're right. So, carrying on: I love Sappho and all her girlfriends, and Ms Bishop and Ms Dillard. Don't know Ms Plath and Ms Sexton well enough, so not sure yet. But knowing me, as the evening concludes and everyone gathers coats and belongings and checks purses to make sure they have cab fare, plus tip, back to the afterlife, I'd be gushing to both of them: I love you.
Q: Well then, let's end it here.
A: No, let's not. We'll keep it going, and post another day.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Quotes from the Blessed Matron Saint of Your Pilgrim's Blog
Emphasis added, by your Pilgrim blogger:
I have often noticed that these things, which obsess me, neither bother nor impress other people even slightly. I am horribly apt to approach some innocent at a gathering and, like the ancient mariner, fix him with a wild glitt'ring eye and say, "Do you know that in the head of the caterpillar of the ordinary goat moth there are two hundred twenty-eight separate muscles?" The poor wretch flees. I am not making chatter; I mean to change his life. I seem to possess an organ that others lack, a sort of trivia machine. -- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim (1974) 1998, 134.
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