A somewhat interesting article on Gerald and Sara Murphy, who you may know as Dick and Nicole Diver, who you may know as the patrons and champions of the lost generation who did not look like a catcher's mitt (see Gertrude Stein), who you may not know at all...

It's Friday in NY. Spill it, Tuna...

Rake by Townes Van Zandt

I used to wake and run with the moon
I lived like a rake and a young man
I covered my lovers with flowers and wounds
my laughter the devil would frighten
The sun she would come and beat me back down
but every cruel day had its nightfall
I'd welcome the stars with wine and guitars
full of fire and forgetful

My body was sharp the dark air clean
and outrage my joyful companion
whisperin' women how sweet did they seem
kneelin' for me to command them
And time was like water but I was the sea
I'd have never noticed it passin
'except for the turnin' of night into day
and the turnin' of day into cursin'

You look at me now, and don't think I don't know
what all your eyes are a sayin'
Does he want us to believe these ravings and lies
they're just tricks that his brains been a playin'?
A lover of women he can't hardly stand
he trembles he's bent and he's broken
I've fallen it's true but I say unto you
hold your tongues until after I've spoken

I was takin' my pride in the pleasures I'd known
I laughed and thought I'd be forgiven
but my laughter turned 'round eyes blazing and
said my friend, we're holdin' a wedding
I buried my face but it spoke once again
the night to the day we're a bindin'
and now the dark air is like fire on my skin
and even the moonlight is blinding

Let me suggest a microcosm for Camus' Sisyphisian universe- housework. Increase rock size exponentially if your home has small children. Any thought about the futility of one's efforts only leads to straitjackets, so I marched down to the basement and grabbed a random handful of cassettes to prevent any synaptic activity. Beginning with the making of breakfast and ending with the last scrubbed morning dish, tape sounds be doing their best to distract me from the final meltdown. Here are the ten best so far-

10. Thelonious Monster- Beautiful Mess- Tom Waits sings on this, the only production money that didn't go up Bob's nose or in his arm.

9. Tav Falco and Panther Burns- Life Sentence in the Cathouse- I own a cassette from Triple X Records.

8. SF Seals- Truth Walks in Sleepy Shadows- Barbara Manning has a beautiful voice.

7. R. L. Burnside- Mr. Wizard- "Snake Drive" is a monster, and it strangely drove Lucas to sing, "Do you really wanna hold my dirty hand?"

6. Roky Erickson- You're Gonna Miss Me- I finally got the Roky documentary today- a welcome release from Barry watch- why does anyone care if Bud Selig attends?

5. Andre Williams- Mr. Rhythm- it's never too early for "Jailbait," until your son asks what it means

4. Alex Chilton- A Man Called Destruction- "What's Your Sign, Girl" is the best 70's song written in the 90's.

3. Stud Cole- hello, dark and scary morning

2. Skip James-"Daddy, is that a ghost singing?"

1. Hank Williams- the perfect soundtrack to your dirty floor

Let me recommend a new punky type record to you - Eddy Current Suppression Ring outta Aussieland. These gents put fun and bounce into their aggression and, even more shockingly, groove. They ain't afraid to lengthen out a fat riff and let you enjoy it for awhile- they ain't afraid to let the punkers dance. Go watch this live thang and cry a puddle for your lost youth.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VdoVPmMTI4

Philip Larkin - Vers de Société

My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps
To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps
You'd care to join us? In a pig's arse, friend.
Day comes to an end.
The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed.
And so Dear Warlock-Williams: I'm afraid -

Funny how hard it is to be alone.
I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted,
Holding a glass of washing sherry, canted
Over to catch the drivel of some bitch
Who's read nothing but Which;
Just think of all the spare time that has flown
Straight into nothingness by being filled
With forks and faces, rather than repaid
Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind,
And looking out to see the moon thinned
To an air-sharpened blade.
A life, and yet how sternly it's instilled

All solitude is selfish. No one now
Believes the hermit with his gown and dish
Talking to God (who's gone too); the big wish
Is to have people nice to you, which means
Doing it back somehow.
Virtue is social. Are, then, these routines
Playing at goodness, like going to church?
Something that bores us, something we don't do well
(Asking that ass about his fool research)
But try to feel, because, however crudely,
It shows us what should be?

Too subtle, that. Too decent, too. Oh hell,
Only the young can be alone freely.
The time is shorter now for company,
And sitting by a lamp more often brings
Not peace, but other things.
Beyond the light stand failure and remorse
Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course -