Friday, June 25, 2021
The Academic Womb from which Radiohead Emerged, Changing Rock & Roll Music Forever
The Abingdon School, Oxfordshire, England
Ground Zero, where the confluence of talent began its tradition; namely, Thom Yorke, Jonny and Colin Greenwood, Ed O'Brien, and Philip Selway.
Thursday, June 24, 2021
Sunday, June 20, 2021
Appalachian American Ennui Nearing its Worst: The Disappearance of Summer Wells
When something like this occurs, metaphorically, it's the equivalent of pulling the fitted sheet off of an old decrepit mattress in some cheap motel and marveling at the residual filth, stained by the worst of humanity. All on God's watch.
This is just up the road in Hawkins County. Just this side of hell.
Wednesday, June 16, 2021
Inmate 483233: (1967 - 2021)
Inmate 483233 didn't commit crimes, he committed a series diabolical attrocities. When I learned that he was recently stabbed to death by a fellow inmate I thought I'd be heartened by the de facto justice. But I wasn't. It was insufficient.
His murderous, unimaginable, torturous acts in May of 2012 in Grassy Fork just down the road in Cocke County ushered in my complete abandonment of any residual belief in god. An ironic gift from this horror of a human, carbon-based composite. I refuse to ever utter his name. This rocked my world, folks. Changed me forever. Left me embarrassed that I ever believed in the existence of god.
Monday, June 14, 2021
The trails, trials, and tribulations of the Unhappy Camper
The Unhappy Camper "got in just under the wire", as he liked to say. Professional salvation. Saved by the profession he would practice at times unprofessionally as fuck. His countenance was best described as chaffed, serrated, and by all means, edgy. "The closer one approaches the edge of the cravasse, the better the view." His quote. He called it the event horizon. His thick Magazine. The fat Collective. The swollen inventory. Of self deprication. Was. His. Thing.
But he kept moving. The rolling marble. He was the author named A. Clay Marble. His pseudonym. Their's were Mrs. A. Clay Marble. Four marbles in all. These frozen identities that would thaw beneath the skin of his three wives would all but obliterate whatever identitiy they might have crafted for themselves. The weird part was that they seemed, at the time, to like it. Thankfully, time heals, and the marbles scattered like a good break in a game of eight-ball upon the green baize of matrimony.
Sunday, June 13, 2021
Paul during his 2021 trip out west
Thursday, June 3, 2021
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