Me and Mr Jones

    Mid-afternoon and the Not-So-Good Doctor has accomplished absolutely nothing.  Instead he's settling in with a beer as Media Player blares-- believe it or not-- Tom Jones and The Art of Noise's version of "Kiss" through the speakers.  Ah, yes, Tom muthafuckin' (literally?) Jones.  I'm not sure whether or not I should be ashamed to admit that.  I should probably be more embarrassed by the fact that in the time it took to type those sentences, Mick Jagger has started screeching and growling his way through "Out of Focus."  Yup:  Jagger solo.  As the kids used to say, "Like, who does that?!?!?"  *shrug*  I belong to another era.  (Correct that, for the kiddies:  I soooooo belong to another era.)  There's always something deeply disquieting about feeling anachronistic at thirty-something.  And people wonder why I drink....

    Not much new to report from these quarters, save perhaps for a few short-notes on matters inchoate, insensible and almost entirely irrelevant, but here we go anyway:

• On Drinkin' Early: I'm going to legitimate it as preparation for this evening, as I wait for the best chance for the Republicans to get kicked in the teeth to go swirling down the drain like so much chocolate syrup.  As a Canuckistani, these elections shouldn't matter a jot to me, but strangely they do.  It's rather a matter of hoping (against hope) that the Yanks will remove their blinders and take the sweet, sweet chance to give President Shrub and his sycophantic snarlers a well-earned repudiation.  But I'm somewhere between pessimistic and cynical, because even if the electorate votes for detentation, I'm not at all convinced the results can be trusted given the highly suspect machinations of the Roving Lunatics.  I have a funny feeling we're going to witness a Republican resurgence as astonishing as the Taliban's.  So brace yourselves for something positively Lazarean this evening, though most of the world will not rejoice to behold the resurrection.  (And for which the Democrats will half-appropriately blame John "Hari-" Kerry.)  Whatever happens, I'll be glad I'm Canadian, for oh-so-many reasons, not least of which is and will be that our elections are invariably done in one day, without the hue and cry of banshees in a mosh-pit.  Hence the beer: something to steel me as I prepare for the double-duty tonight of toasting and lamenting at the same time.
  
  
• Roll With It, Baby:  Latest track:  The Spencer Davis Group, "Gimme Some Lovin.'"  Just cut me open and start countin' the rings.  (Bring a calculator if you attempt the same with Stevie Winwood.)
  
  
• Tolerate This:  In other Fishy matters, there's a review of Wendy Brown's Regulating Aversion by Stanley Fish that's worth a read, even if it strike me as a bit of (forgive me) piscine in the wind.  I do agree with him, though, on a buried point about "the mistake of theory, or the mistake that is theory."  Theory, at least in the humanities, reminds of Joyce's Ireland for being the fallow sow that inevitably eats her young.  Insert your own jokes here about the other white meats.
  
  
• Death Of A Ladies Man:  Poker players, as many of you know, develop notions about which cards to play based on their individual experiences.  Legend Doyle Brunson, aka "The Godfather of Poker," notoriously refuses to play Ace-Queen because he has lost so much money with that hand over the years.  I have realized now the hand that I should never, ever play, and the irony couldn't be apter.  Nothing kisses me with death more than pocket Queens, easily the hand with which I've lost most.  Infer from that what you will; you probably won't be wrong.   
  
  
• Got GILF?:  This blog reports, you decide.  (I suspect a reverse version would include the familiar figures: Harrison Ford, Sean Connery, Patrick Stewart, maybe Leonard Cohen.)  Forgive this blog for observing that Pussy Galore (Honor Blackman) is still, er, there galore.  Somebody should consult Tom Jones for comment.
  
  
• Holey Smokes:  If you missed it, check out Jon Stewart's coverage of the Haggard scandal from last night's The Daily Show.  (Click on the pic of the newsdesk at left to go to Comedy Central's website.)  Oh, the things we put ourselves through....  Er, well, not "we,"  kemo-sabe....
  
  
• Haggardy And:  Okay, I confess.  While writing this, I dug up some of the recordings Tom Jones did with --- gasp!--- Van Morrison over the years, including their surprisingly good reworking of the otherwise vapid Van tune, "Sometimes We Cry."  (Then again, Johnny Cash singing Trent Reznor would once have seemed just as unlikely.)   The mere thought, however, of Van Morrison singing "Sex Bomb" should certainly be enough to cease the world from spinning on its axis.
  
  
• Plathitudes and Plongitudes:  Some of you may have heard about the recently discovered sonnet by Sylvia Plath.  I'm of mixed feelings on Plath, but this one I think best remaindered into history.  Judge for yourself.  Expect, however, further reams of academic argumentation about what a bastard Ted Hughes must have been.
  

• Stupor-System:  Forster would surely have balked at this, but writing this entry reminds me that preliminary lubrication surely makes it easier to "Only Connect."  Read that sentence in the panoply of ways it allows.  (Forgive, though, the forced split infinitive.)  And perhaps somebody should consult Tom Jones for comment--- or maybe an American evangelist.  Methaphorically speaking, of course.

So where is this stream of semi-consciousness going?  Damned if I know.  (Damned if I ever do.)  But the connections are many and eerie, and I wonder if the message nascent in the lot is that hucksterism somehow, even miraculously, prevails and even thrives against all of the suggestive odds. 

    Who am I kidding? 

    (You knew this was coming sooner or later, so altogether now, and wave your arms as you know you should, in cheeky and paramount glee....) 

    It's not unusual, / It happens everyday, / No matter what you say, / You'll find it happens all the time.... 

    And discard your underwear at will.