Today was so failmade, discovering the Mountain Goats' "Lovecraft in Brooklyn" was almost its only redemption. A friend did send me some tentacle porn, however, and I have just received spam whose subject header reads "The Bachelor's Roseless Conclusion"—I'm sure it's a stolen pop headline, but I think it might still be the best title ever. At least a song by the Decemberists or David Bowie. When I am feeling a little less scraped out, I need to mention Milk (2008), Spirited Away (2001), and Fearless (1993), all of which I saw this week, and something about Edith Sitwell.
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- 1: Well, you can't tell much from faces
- 2: This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now
- 3: Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity
- 4: Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to
- 5: You know this city like the back of your hand, but deep roots are holding me down
- 6: Here we are in the summer rain again
- 7: You're on, music master
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