Taking me to task for moaning the blues with my Dog Days dirge, Vicki asks if I really don't have anything to say, to which I answer, ummmm, yeah, pretty much. So what. There's plenty else to do tonight besides peeking at my pathetic little corner of the blogosphere where there's nothing to see and nil to do (go make your driving mix, ya' deadbeats). I'll spare you the trouble of surfing around for places that do this better because God knows, in this August heat, typing and opening browsers only to find yet another green poop post might send you into the kind of apoplexy that made Bob Novak what he is today.
So if you're seeking to be truly entertained by a blog as opposed to being bone-rattlingly bored by the train wreck we all call "Patriside", I recommend you hit these links (much more satisfying than hitting THE links):
TOOMA, Lu, continues unfolding the sometimes steamy saga between she and me; she took us past the rough spot and thankfully delivers us back to the luscious mush some call romance ("some who call it romance" is Edgy Mama, a huge fan of this romance and although she doesn't link me, dammitall, she's well worth the click through).
If you're on the prowl for a minor kerfluffle, Grace stands tall and challenges all shit-talkers to diss Dooce so Grace can administer a well-deserved bitch-slapping (ugh, Gawd Grace, I'm sorry, I couldn't resist, it's the tequilla talking, I swear). Personally, I've never gotten the whole Dooce thing (whatever THAT means) but just because I won't wave at a Kewl Kid doesn't mean I feel the need to pass nasty notes about The Prom Queen in Brit Lit class. I'm with Grace on this pissing contest (as all of you may have suspected, yes, the cat's out of the bag, so to speak, mind the spray).
Never, ever go over to my buddy Elisson's blog if you're hungry. Even when he's writing about gross stuff, you'll soon come across a recipe to make you forget about the turd in a punchbowl.
Chasmyn reposts an excellent (and moving) piece to shame the shithead mental midgets who get the willies with all things "queer". Probably the best thing posted all weekend, IMHO, ample compensation for wading through my inane babble.
Finally, the previously mentioned pixie-who-spanks-me has a heartbreaking piece at the link above and then - HA! - admits her cat's got nothing today.
Not a comprehensive list but it's a good start, sufficient considering my maddening brood needs to be bathed and made ready for bed. To soothe myself, Ludwig Van lulls me back to sanity with the Third. Again, I'm humbled by someone who says it better than me, in describing what an unforgettable experience Eroica can be:
...For a minute the opening balanced from one side to the other. Like a walk or march. Like God strutting in the night. The outside of her was suddenly froze and only the first part of the music was hot inside her heart. She could not even hear what sounded after, but sat there waiting and froze, with her fists tight. After a while the music came again, harder and loud. I didn't have anything to do with God. This was her, Mick Kelly, walking in the daytime and by herself at night. In the hot sun and in the dark with all the plans and feelings. This music was her - the real plain her.
...The whole world was this music and she could not listen hard enough. Then at last the opening music came again, with all the different instruments bunched together for each note like a hard, tight fist that socked at her heart. And the first part was over.
The music did not take a long time or a short time. It did not have anything to do with time going by at all. She sat with her arms held tight around her legs, biting her salty knee very hard. It might have been five minutes she listened or half the night. The second part was black-colored - a slow march. Not sad, but like the whole world was dead and black and there was no thinking back how it was before. One of those horn kind of instruments played a sad and silver tune. The music rose up angry and with excitement underneath. And finally the black march again.
But maybe the last part of the symphony was the music she loved the best - glad and like the greatest people in the world running and springing up in a hard, free way. Wonderful music like this was the worst hurt there could be. The whole world was this music, and there was not enough of her to listen.
(from The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers)
As I have nothing to say, I'm happy to pass along the thoughts and words of those who do and say it well.