Some Tunes

Snake Eyes --The Milk Carton Kids



swing low, swing low
for to carry me home
in fire the skies of red

my breath's gone cold
a kiss from the coal
a blanket of snow overhead

slow, holy roller
it's just rock and roll

hold your tears
where they've hung all these years
down from the heavens above

old snake eyes
you had better disguise
all that appears of thee

pray for love
from the heavens above
laid in the ashes below

And a Tiny Desk Concert via NPR:

Advertising Genius

Nice Try

I appreciate the attempts, but at some point this shit just ain't funny anymore.

Nerd Alert

WARNING:  

You are entering a Free-Ranging Science Area

Those choosing to remain ignorant must exit now.

Nerds are among my favorite people.  Because they know stuff.

Today's Pix

FauxRage Fatigue

If "conservatives" actually stopped pimping the War-On-Christmas, then what would we do without the annual Jon Stewart bit mocking them?

We used to get Christmas Specials on TV - Bob Hope and Andy Williams and Johnny Mathis and Bing Crosby and anybody else they could find who once upon a time had a tune in the Top 40 and who could still string a coupla heartbeats together.  Now we have this new holiday tradition:

Today's Pix

Some Tunes

Grapefruit Juicy Fruit --Jimmy Buffett




When The Feelin' Comes Around --Jennifer Warnes

Thanksgiving Poem

Kopis'taya (A Gathering of Spirits)
by Pueblo and Sioux writer Paula Gunn Allen

Because we live in the browning season
the heavy air blocking our breath,
and in this time when living
is only survival, we doubt the voices
that come shadowed on the air,
that weave within our brains
certain thoughts, a motion that is soft,
imperceptible, a twilight rain,
soft feather's fall, a small body dropping
into its nest, rustling, murmuring, settling
in for the night.

Because we live in the hardedged season
where plastic brittle and gleaming shine,
and in this space that is cornered and angled,
we do not notice wet, moist, the significant
drops falling in perfect spheres that are certain measures
of our minds;
almost invisible, those tears,
soft as dew, fragile, that cling to leaves,
petals, roots, gentle and sure,
every morning.

We are the women of the daylight, of clocks
and steel foundries, of drugstores
and streetlights, of superhighways
that slice our days in two. Wrapped around
in plastic and steel we ride our lives;
behind dark glasses we hide our eyes;
our thoughts, shaded, seem obscure.
Smoke fills our minds, whiskey husks our songs,
polyester cuts our bodies from our breath,
our feet from the welcoming stones of earth.
Our dreams are pale memories of themselves
and nagging doubt is the false measure
of our days.

Even so, the spirit voices are singing,
their thoughts are dancing in the dirty air.
Their feet touch the cement, the asphalt
delighting, still they weave dreams upon our
shadowed skulls, if we could listen.
If we could hear.

Let's go then. Let's find them.
Let's listen for the water, the careful
gleaming drops that glisten on the leaves,
the flowers. Let's ride
the midnight, the early dawn.
Feel the wind striding though our hair.
Let's dance the dance of feathers,
the dance of birds.

hat tip = The Rude Pundit

Today's Toon