the malfatti problem. my life in the singularity.

“Foals in winter coats
White Girls of the North
File past one five and one
They are the fabled lambs of Sunday Ham
The EHS norm

And they could Float above the grass in circles if they tried
A latent power I know they hide
To keep some hope alive that a girl like I’m could ever try
Could ever try

So we just skirt the hallway sides
A phantom and a fly
Follow the lines and wonder why
There’s no connection

A week of rolling eyes
And Cheap shots from the trite
And we’re off to Nemarca’s porch again
Another afternoon of the goat-head tunes and pilfered booze

We wander through her mama’s house
The milk from a window lights family portrait circa ‘95
This is that foreign land
With the sprayed on tans
And it all feels fine
Be it silk or slime

So when they tap our Monday heads
Two zombies walk in our stead
This town seems hardly worth the time
And we’ll no longer memorize or rhyme
Too far along in our climb
Stepping over what now towers to the sky
With no connection

So when they tap our Sunday heads
Two zombies walk in our stead
This town seems hardly worth our time
And we’ll no longer memorize or rhyme
Too far along in our crime
Stepping over what now towers to the sky
With no connection…”

- Phantom Limb, The Shins

Maxim’s take on an all-music rag has named its forty worst lyricists of all time. According to them, the ten worst are Jim Morrison, Donovan, Dianne Warren, Paul Stanley, Tom Marshall, Dan Fogelberg, Noel Gallagher, Scott Stapp, Neil Peart and Sting. With Sting taking top honors as the worst.

I’m not sure I agree with all of those in the top ten, but probably most. Check out the full list and make your own decision. Is Blender an insightful music circular, or simply glossy toilet paper? Keep in mind, they put Paul McCartney on this list.

The Monopoly game is back at McDonald’s and I’m convinced with all the traveling I do for work and to NYC, I’ve got myself spread out enough to actually win something this time around. Only problem? I stopped eating fast food, or at least have been trying to.

Is it worth it to start snacking on some McDowell’s — -er, McDonald’s just to attempt a stupid game of chance? Or better yet, is it worth they money to just buy the stuff, take the Monopoly pieces and dump the food? I say neither.

Does it mean I won’t try it? God, I’ll try as hell not to. I don’t need to put that shit it my body anymore. Just look at Morgan Spurlock — biased and contrived or not. He’s got a point.

Just a quick note of commemoration. Today would have been John Lennon’s 67th Birthday. While many gather in and around Strawberry Fields in Manhattan, his widow and Ringo Starr were in Reykjavik, Iceland to unveil the Imagine Peace Tower dedicated to the late musician.

Being such a huge fan even though I was just twenty-two months old when he was murdered, I sometimes wonder if a time will ever come where absolutely no one is affected by his music?

I hope not.

I should know who I am by now,
I walk the record stand somehow,
Thinkin of winter
Your name is the splinter inside me
While I wait

Oh! I remember the sound
Of your November downtown,
And I remember the truth,
A warm December with you,
But I dont have to make this mistake,
And I dont have to stay this way
If only I would wake…
- Winter, Joshua Radin

Frozen into coats,
White girls of the North,
Fire past one, fire the one,
The are the fabled lambs,
A Sunday ham,
The ancient snow.

And they can float above the grass,
In circles if they tried,
A latent power I know they hide,
To keep some hope alive,
That a girl like I could ever try,
Could ever try.

So we just skirt the hallway signs,
A phantom and a fly,
Follow the lines and wonder why
There’s no connection.

And weakened falling eyes,
In cheap shots from the tribe,

And we’re often in Marcus’ porch again,
Another afternoon with the gold head tunes,
And pilfered booze.

We wandered through your mama’s house,
And the milk from the window lights,
Family portrait circa ninety-five,
This is that foreign land,
With the sprayed on tans,
And it all feels fine,
Beat it circa slime,

So, when they tap our mundane heads,
To zombie-walk in our stead,
This town seems hardly worth our time,
And we’ll no longer memorize or rhyme,
To fall along in our crime,
Stepping over what now towers to the sky,
With no connection.

- “Phantom Limb”, The Shins