Tobias at La Vida Locash just sent us this link to the new Kocky mixtape, "Kocky Wear The Crown." The mix contains more original Kocky material than the last mixtape, which was, you know, a mixtape. This is like a CD that someone sends you right before their album comes out. Sort of. I don't think the Autotuned ragga dudes are on Kocky's album but what do I know.
I found this .gif on Jace's website. It is not new and that does not matter.
"In debates and discussions we should not immediately be impressed by what we take to be a man's own bon mots. Most men are rich with other men's abilities. It may well be that such-and-such a man makes a fine remark, a good reply or a pithy saying, advancing it without realizing its power. (That we do not grasp everything we borrow can doubtless be proved from my own case.) We should nto always give way, no matter what beauty or truth it may have. We should either seriously attack it or else, under pretence of not understanding it, retreat a little so as to probe it thoroughly and to discover how it is lodged in its author. We may be helping his sword-thrust to carry beyond his reach, running on to it ourselves. There have been times when, pressed by necessity in the duel of words, I have made conter-attacks which struck home more than I ever hoped or expected. I was countering their number: they were accepted for their weight."
Michel de Montaigne, On Friendship
"HARPER VALLEY PTA unbecoming behavior
Young people today despise hypocrisy. Consequently, they find this song sardonically satisfying. It is a story of a young woman accused of behavior unbecoming a resident of Harper Valley, who fights back with facts about the hypocritical ways of some of her accusers.
It might be interesting to compare the accusations leveled at the widow, Mrs. Johnson—wearing a miniskirt, drinking and going around with men—with the accusations she directs at some of the members of the PTA—adultery, seduction, drunkenness—and to discusss how the accusations might be ranked in importance or severity.
The young girl who sings the song is obviously on her mother's side and quite happy to tell us about the day 'my mama socked it to the Harper Valley PTA.'"
"The boy sits up, interested. Is that what sort of food they have in Hell? He asks, Fried dough? Hm, I say, exhaling smoke, Good point. I suppose it's more likely they have no food at all in Hell. Or perhaps they eat vegetables down there; I have no idea. In any case, Hell might be spoiled but there are other possibilities, different ways to locate beauty. We continue to look or we die. My words ring out. An echo somewhere. We continue to try or we are dead. And don't be fooled by reinterpretation, I warn, You must steel yourself against falling for the reinterpreters of the world. A reinterpreter will betray you in an instant. He presents an image as fresh when in fact the image is stale and the language is fresh. Betrayal is the very worst of sins, don't you agree? I ask the boy, We must guard ourselves against betrayal. Against beauty. And against love. fine, Edmund's brother says. You understand? I ask. He nods. We stare at each other. I lift my chin and narrow my eyes. He nods again, more eagerly. Fine, I say. On to the zoo."
Heather McGowan, Duchess of Nothing.
"Then, too, on the telephone the other is always in a situation of departure; the other departs twice over, by voice and by silence: whose turn is it to speak? We fall silent in unison: crowding of two voids. I'm going to leave you, the voice on the telephone says with each second."
Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments.
"The Greek histories mention some neighbours of the Scythians, the Argippaei, who do not even have sticks or clubs for weapons; not only does no one ever set out to attack them but because of their virtuous holy lives, any man who seeks refuge with them is quite safe: no one would dare to come and lay hands on him. Recourse is had to them to settle any disputes which arise among men elsewhere."
Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Essays.
"There is scarcely anything more difficult than to love one another. That it is work, day labor, God knows there is no other word for it."
Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke On Love and Other Difficulties.
"I think painting dies, you understand. After forty or fifty years a picture dies, because its freshness disappears. Sculpture also dies. This is my own little hobbyhorse, which no one accepts, but I don't mind. I think a picture dies after a few years like the man who painted it. Afterward it's called the history of art. There's a huge difference between a Monet today, which is black as anything, and a Monet sixty or eighty years ago, when it was brilliant, when it was made. Now it has entered into history—it's accepted as that, and anyway that's fine, because that has nothing to do with what it is. Men are mortal, pictures too."
Mixes are cheap beer. Everybody's got a blend. I know. Get "Beyond the Valley of the Smurfs" anyway.
Ben is en fuego now: Mortality, with matinees.
Our friend Anne writes: "Check out this awesome portent: This morning at 7 a.m., a bearded man from the road crew digging a hole to hell out in front of my apartment rang my doorbell. He was carrying a tall paper cup brimming with a thick red-orange liquid. He asked if he could flush it down my toilet, "and flush it twice." I invited him right in."
A big hello to Kristi, Alexis, Christina, Kenyaratta and Anderson in Mississippi. Do not stop, because you should not stop.