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Showing posts from December, 2017

My favorite music of 2017

This being the occasion of my thirty-first annual Top Ten Albums list – yes, thirty-one years, that’s practically forever, you know – the truth is I cannot recall a time when I did not finish out each and every year in this way.
It is time for me to do it again now, so let’s just get on with it.
10. Lana del Rey –Lust for Life   (pop, 2017) A guilty pleasure, perhaps. No. No, not that. I buy hook, line, and sinker into her whole old Hollywood, strung out faux-glamour schtick, exactly like I bought into Ziggy Stardust and Tom Waits’ Seventies-era barroom crooner thing. She belongs here, I know it, even with a chorus like “God bless America / And all the beautiful women in it.” I buy into it all.
9. Edward Ka-Spel – High on Station Yellow Moon   (dark ambient, 2017) He’s one of my most favorite storytellers. On his own as well as with his bands, The Legendary Pink Dots and Tear Garden, Edward Ka-Spel has snatched me into innumerable strange and beautiful places through the years. This one is …

Liminal house

The Brothers Pyk were not triplets, no, I don’t care what you say, how could they have been triplets when they were not born into this world on the same day, in the same year, and perhaps even decades set them apart? Their case file made this much evident, at least, to me.
I mention this only because, but for their hands, to which I will return in time, I promise, they appeared identical to the point of utter interchangeability.
They stood in the field fog. Stood in, or rather materialized out of. I say materialized because, as so often happens with me, I failed to notice their approach.
It was property taxes that brought us together. On such bureaucratic nonsense, the work days of lawyers, and I am a lawyer, are filled. “It’s not your fault, Attorney Harry,” the brother in the center, known to me, privately, within my head, as Two Hands, said. He said, “Liminal House is a house that cannot decide which side of the border it’s on.”
It was the official position, you see, of Harris County…


I would like to say thank you, which is too much already. There exists no need, really, to go through this whole “I would like to say” rigmarole. I should just say it – “Thank you” – then leave it at that. There. An economy of words, a certain conciseness, it is a wonderful thing in writing, you can ask anyone.
Thank you, Allen Reinertsen, “GOODSTUFF” as all of us knew you, for everything that you did for me. You were the ringmaster, sir, the happy stranger from Bangkok, a shameless self-promoter, and, I suppose, a bit of a pervert, too. Over many years, you did more for my blogs than anyone did. Even now, today, months after the fact, you’ve been dead and gone since October and still you’re bringing more traffic to my words than anyone else does.
I never thanked you, never during your life, for believing in my writing and what’s more, for telling others about it. Me being me, you know, I was always much too arrogant, too cool, too fixated on my next little story to take the time – and…