Melodious Thunk

Wild Things

Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.

-Maurice Sendak

 

Bamm Bamm Rubble Goes Berserk

@discipleKen I’ve decided that Griffin’s game is equal parts Young McDyess, Young Robert Horry, Moses, Duncan, Darvin Ham, and Bam Bam Rubble

Holy shit.

After a few of these last night, Blake Griffin coming down court on any semblance of a fast break was absolutely terrifying.

And the Knicks win.

Spectacular Consumption

The images detached from every aspect of life fuse in a common stream in which the unity of this life can no longer be reestablished.  Reality considered partially unfolds, in its own general unity, as a psuedo-world apart, an object of mere contemplation.  The specialization of images of the world is completed in the world of the autonomous image, where the liar has lied to himself.  The spectacle in general, as the concrete inversion of life, is the autonomous movement of the nonliving.

- Society of the Spectacle, Chapter 1

Straight Outta 1959

Via A Blog Supreme.

Hot diggity damn. Lee Morgan!  Wayne Shorter!   Classic version of A Night in Tunisia, maybe the best.

Psychoanalysis: The Duke, The Roach, and the Madman

It starts off like a rocket: a sizzling bass line is interrupted by a recklessly efficient drumbeat and then wonderfully dissonant piano rears its head and demands attention.  This is certainly not your father’s Duke Ellington record.

Sestin A: Amar’eForte

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing

My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson

But is fit only to rot in womanish peace

Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash

For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;

Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

-Ezra Pound