Death/Media Canzone III

It's been a while since we did this feature here at Death/Media... Schiavo has been somewhat MIA lately, so some of the initial wind in the blog's aim of setting up a media cult has faded... PSYCH!

Randall Jarrell, noted (by Nostradamus) particularly for his ekphrastic poem "The Knight, Death, and the Devil", much like previous D/M Saint Barthes, died by simply walking into traffic. As far as I can tell, Francois Mitterand was not involved.

Keats/Shelley/Byron, the second generation of English Romantic poets, all of whom died before the first generation (Blake/Wordsworth/Coleridge)... The headline in the paper when Shelley drowned was as follows: Shelley the Atheist is Drowned. Now he knows whether there is a god or not. Keats's tomb is inscribed with the following early form of Death/Medievality: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water". Byron on the other hand led a revolutionary group of mercenaries into Greece where he died an appropriately glorious death of malaria.

Anfernee Hardaway-----What the fuck happened, Penny? Have you even bothered to sue Lebron and Sprite for ripping off "li'l Penny"? You were, for about 3-4 years, one of the absolutely best players in the league, no questions asked. A few knee injuries later, and you are horrible... Grant Hill, after having about 4565 surgeries on his ankle came back and was a total baller, making plays despite his diminished athleticism. Guess Penny wasn't that fundamentally sound after all...


Noble readers, I am sorry for the lack of new content in the last few days. I have been attending graduation ceremonies (I wanted to strangle this one "junk-dealer's son" [by junk he meant the Sanford and Son kind, not smack] who at the end of his overwhelmingly self-righteous speech, after slathering his parents with cliched expressions of love, gave all the credit to JC... Great. Go fuck yourself, and take your hatred-filled religion with you!) in Providence at one of the other Ivy towers...

Arlo Harshenstein has been caught up sitting shiva for a recently deceased pet. Actual Rod has his own shit to take care of....

Anyway, just to let you know, we here at DMIMRITF are working on some new bits of zaniness, including an updated version of one of our chief inspirations, Thomas Lovell Beddoes's play "Death's Jest Book". You'll want to piss yourself, trust me.


Quote of the Week

"I don't know how they got those skeletons to fight, but someday I want that to be my job. To make skeletons fight."

-Mark Hammill, on his ambitions. Quoted from AP interview, May 18.

Bush Twins Quetzlcotl Sacrifice Bash

Ho Content.



Death/Media Incarnate Logo

At long last, the official Death/Media Incarnate Logo:

Arab Blog War

Isn't it interesting to read AP Stories about the Zarquawi situation, especially those which cite (anonymously of course) what are essentially terrorist blogs...? It's kind of weird how close to home this strikes.

I guess this brings us back to the inevitably exasperating "/" in Death/Media... Is it merely a knowing pseudo-Derridean joke on the part of, well, me, or is it, as I have suggested elsewhere, actually a serious representation of conservative-religio-hoarders' greatest fears.

Pet peeve of the day: People who quote Whitman's elegant penultimate section of Song of Myself in the following way:

"Yeah yeah yeah, I contradict myself, very well then, multitudes, blah, blah."

That, nor most of our friendly Emersonian aphorisms from Self-Reliance are to be taken so lightly as to be rendered dialogue from a modern-day John Hughes film.

Ariel Sharon:pizza/cheeseburger::America:the sweet release of conflagration

I like the idea of a 'news' (bass fishing) magazine format for our forthcoming television pilot, Nostradeezy, but here's the truth.

A friend just told me that the actual product is only in the actual commercial for one actual clip. The rest is all Paris. Hawt.

The only question that arises from this, in my mind, has nothing to do with the germaneness of exposing quasi-sexual content to children for no reason (because after all, your little girls are going to become whores anyway and your little boys are going to turn into this). Rather, I'm interested in the schizophrenic 'message' it sends to impressionable shawties who see a relatively attractive/successful anorexic cokewhore (not to insult my dear Paris, who has long been an Arlo Harshenstein fan) eating a large, oily sandwich. Do we want little girls to think they can eat that shit and still look like Paris Hilton? Cuz hell no.

Why have no parent groups come forth with this pressing concern?


Blogshares: Human Interest Factor

So while googling "Death/Media Incarnate" the other day (what else have I got to do?) I came across a curious site, namely, Blogshares. I should have foreseen this! Of course, a made up stock market where blogs are given fake value amounts based on their number of recognized incoming links, it was inevitable. I guess, despite my rising status as an X-list celebrity, I had no idea anyone could possibly care this much about blogs. Needless to say, I joined immediately. If anyone thinks this is lame, I agree. Put it down for the always elusive "Human Interest Factor".

Fan Mail

Just going through my mail from readers, thought I'd post a few of the most interesting/invasive letters:

Dear Nostradamus,

What kind of a sick loser are you? Schiavo bubblebath? That is despicable and makes no sense. Ashes are not an ingredient in bubblebath.


Well, Molly, glad you liked the post. A Death/Media Incarnate Mug is coming your way.

Dear Nostracockface,

This is supposed to be prophecies? Where are the statistics on that? Full disclosure of the accuracy of your past predictions or I will read no more.


Chip, my friend, prophecy is such a various form, such a potential-rife abscess of interpretation that actual, numerical calculations of accuracy would be nearly impossible. Cheer up, though, as soon as bravenet offers such a tracker, it will be on Death/Media.

Dear Mr. Marquis

I've been a reader from the beginning, and I just wanted to say, Bravo (as in the network). I envision a PTI Format nightly news magazine featuring you and Actual Rod duking it out over political issues. Bravo would the perfect venue for your off-beat Humor; reincarnated-16th-century-prophet could be the new "Queer".

Tan Dancer

I will get back to you re: this, Tan. Just give me a few days to get my notes in order.

More mail to come!


Aphorism for the Day

The Democrats feel that government should be held accountable to the people, yet this is perceived as a weakness by the people. The people want a government that is only accountable to God.


Happiness is a Warm Gun

Just kicking back and listening to a little Beatles on this foggy New York Morning. Got me thinking, why has there never been a really good Beatles film? I mean a film about them. There was that early nineties piece "Back Beat", but I'm talking something epic. An HBO original mini-series, something that would make us forget Paul McCartney's collaboration with Michael Jackson ever happened. Nostradamus claims to be a big Jacko supporter, but as usual, I think it's just a carefully constructed ruse designed to stir up controversy.


Rejoice, thirsty flaccids! (or: Schiavosis, Vol. I Section 4 Sub-section Q)

I feel the love of my readers plopping into my prophetic hands from time to time. "You're the common man's prophet," they tell me, "Actual Raud, do not forsake us with your absence!!! Will you heal my boil?"

So it would be interesting, I thought, that the first post in my triumphant return to the blogospheric Rodosphere be on a blog to which I haven't even linked yet--(apologies, Nost., I haven't even laid eyes on that Temple of Righteousness for nearly a month)--and so, here I am. Much thanks to Nostrobama for giving me this bloginternship.

In keeping with one of the themes of Death/Media, therefore, I'd like to introduce a concept to the readers.

Nostradamus has courageously brought to light the true nature of the Culture of Ciphe, or, as I prefer to call it, flaccid worship. What the fuck do I mean? --The constant media obsession with Schiavo Game and the recent misery of the Runaway Womb-man amidst an age of war, terror, lies, rape, torture, and misinformation ought to reveal to us that our beloved media no longer even cares about profits (gasp!!!!). Lies (on which I will comment later, probably back at the Temple, but suffice to cough, um...er... Downing Street Memo?), torture (ditto), lies about torture (I will never comment on this you fucking pigs, think for yourselves), etc. are all extremely thirst-quenching. The media has largely chosen to ignore these refreshments, instead opting with the aforementioned bullshit. Their profits are indeed taking a nosedive, and that may be connected to the fact that they have no souls, or the fact that the Bush Administration has been systematically eliminating large groups of news-loving minorities, but I'd wager it has more to do with the fact that the 'news' is no longer news.

Who would've thought that tabloidization could ever cause widespread disinterest in the news? Eh.

Saddamn, you look good in them white briefs, but let's be clear, the U.S. is holding him as a POW to be tried by an 'Iraqi court'. There are no fucking Iraqi courts. There is NO Iraqi law! Ramsey Clark, former U.S. Attorney General, made the excellent point that these Iraqi 'judges' are appointed by the AMERICAN (and, at the time of Saddam's capture, unelected) Bush Administration, the case against Saddam has been prepared by the Bush Administration, and there is simply no legitimate legal structure in which to try Saddam yet. And the neocons can't hand him over to the International Criminal Court, as they should, because Bolton would shit on them.

Saddam was indeed helpless to stop the publication of those photos, but I'd say he was helpless even before the capture. The moment he became an icon, Schiavosis set in. This is just an advanced stage.

(By the way, I'm going to resume posting at I am justice either tonight or tomorrow, so keep your eyes peeled, or I will be obliged peel them myself.)


Idea Stolen from Delino Deshields

No, not marrying a woman with a feminized version of my name, Nostradama, rather, providing an important bit of information for our favorite online encyclopedia.

More Hijinks

Obviously the real credit for this kind of chicanery goes to the crew at not about Delino Deshields (who comes up surprisingly often on a site supposedly not about him...), who are pioneers, wave makers, while Nostradamus remains a mere surfer.

The Power Game/Rememberance of Steep Alcoves

Does anybody else remember that early, somewhat Syd Barrett-esque, Doors' song called "Go Insane"? Pretty classic camp from Morrison, who really touched on something a little bit later with "The Soft Parade" lounge singer vibe... That was Morrison at his best, forget the whiskey swilling blues singing rockstar, it's the Wayne Newtoned-out potential king of Vegas I'll remember and cherish.

Speaking of Jim Morrison, why doesn't Phillip Roth tackle his story in his next book? I mean, Oliver Stone was okay, but Rotho, that would be the truth. It could be, like, a sequel to the Human Stain. Why not?


At Gun-Point...

...Nostradamus has forced me to make this Schiavo post (not literally at gun-point, but let's just say my future as a contributor was hanging by a thread for a second there)...

So, in order to counteract the madness of the administrator, I thought I would supply a link to a surprisingly reasonable article about "Theresa Schiavo" by NY Review of Books writer Joan Didion.

The article is basically a summary of what many already know: the Schiavo case was (is) full of ambiguous, impossible to substantiate claims on both sides, and the media firestorm (referred to throughout the piece as a "Circus"... Nostradamus?) that erupted around the case was seen by many as opportunism on the parts of both the media and legislators... Boring.

Didion, while acknowledging the ambiguities of the case and exploring some of them with sensitivity, misses the very serious point made by Nostradamus through the haze of his joking and gesturing, namely, that Terri Schiavo (Didion's attempt to sanitize the story by calling her "Theresa Schiavo" is further evidence of the point missed) is a paradigmatic figure not just for others in similar (or even metaphorically related)circumstances (ie. permanently vegetative state suffers, locked-in syndrome sufferers, the terminally ill, right-to-diers, unborn fetuses, etc.) but for all "human beings" caught in the all blemishing, all-forgiving, all-knowing eye of the media.

This is why Nostradamus has called this blog "Death/Media Incarnate Made Real in Text Form" and it is no joke.

Schiavo Update

Schiavo lived in Bucks County, PA, birthplace of Wallace Stevens. Coincidence? I think not. To whom do we think this refers:

"She sang beyond the genius of the sea
The water never formed to mind nor voice
Like a body wholly body fluttering its empty sleeves."

-Idea of Order at Key West

"Body wholly body" seems a pretty clear prophecy of Terri to this seer!

Further Adventures of Quenti McRio

During the summer of 2002, prior to Nene's rise to the heights of superstardom with the Nuggets, I was in Berlin, storming the Mauerpark basketball courts with mad game, smack and an occasional elbow-to-the-face of the errant Chinese street-baller (the streetcourts of Rio are way harder than those of Beijing, let me tell you) all of this in my guise as Brazilian-Irish ne'er-do-well Quenti McRio (the German's always fall for that shit!). Things went very well, and I even screamed the few Portuguese words I knew (I've since forgotten all of them) as I swatted shots and pinned lay-ups to the backboard.

Eventually, I befriended a group of players who were actors. They played the staff of a psychiatric hospital on a German sitcom. No joke. There was even this wildly attractive thirty-five year old (with two kids) who wanted to take NostraQuenti home for the night (this was avoided for several indivulgible reasons. Trust me.)... Anyway, these wild cats were real interested in Brazil (which was really interesting to me too, as I knew next to nothing except a few details I'd gleaned from a boarding school hallmate years ago), so we had a fun time over beers and thai food discussing the amazon, the status of catholicism in South America, and Rio's night life...

All of this was going fine, until NostradaQuenti was lured into a bathroom by a woman (strangely not one of the group), where she promptly squirted me in the face with breast-milk... As you can imagine, this was quite distressing, and I left my actor-psychiatrists friends and ran back through the park in the pouring rain, wishing against all odds that I could some day learn to samba.

I did see one of my actor friend's again, but alas, my mood had shifted... I was no longer Quenti, just your plain old Connecticut Visionary, Nostradamus! I gave him a free palm-reading, babbled something at him as I imagined his pretend patients would, and ran off, again into the pouring rain, but this time with the need to somehow metamorph into a locust capable of leaving behind its outer shell seasonally.

Check Out this Freak

What a madman! Check out the look on his face:


Oh yeah, and welcome to Arlo. I can't say I'm pleased that he has decided not to post about Schiavo, but I trust his posts will provide some insight into other, minor areas of general interest.

Thanks for the Invite

Hi there, Death/Media friends. My name is Arlo Harshenstein. Nostradamus was kind enough to ask me to become a regular contributor to Death/Media Incarnate Made Real in Text Form, and I was happy to oblige him.

I'll be providing cultural commentary of a more serious kind (read: this will be the only reference to Terri Schiavo in any of my posts). I was raised by Jewish Hippies, which gives me something of an interesting perspective on things... So, as to my first post, here goes:

Psychics fascinate me. My parents often had long seances in Hebrew when I was growing up, and I think this may have been the genesis of my interest in matters paranormal. Nostradamus purports to be a kind of seer, but from what I know of him, I think he's most likely just a jibing, overly verbose fraud. Just kidding, friend, don't damn me : )

But real psychics, and their oft-televised stories, are terrifying. It's like the episode of the Sopranos, when the psychic sees all of Paulie's victims' ghosts crowding around him and Paulie freaks out, throws a chair and storms off... That's how I feel just turning on Court TV and hearing about some of these things...

I once visited a psychic myself. Though my dreadlocks and Star of David pendant were a slight give away, she hit on the Jewish hippie vibe at once. Her name was Madame Chloe. She wore no turban, you see, lived in a remarkably clean and tidy apartment, left her TV perpetually tuned to SportsCenter for "the frequencies." Beyond the obvious, easily ascertainable aspects of my personal life, she also managed to tell me some true things. First, she knew I had broken my cheek bone in a terrible slip-and-slide accident at age 8. I assure you, and my mother will testify to this, I have no scars from this accident. She also managed to figure out that I had been a student, for a brief two week stint, at the Ecole Normale in Paris, before being kicked out for not speaking French (this had been a carefully constructed lie to acquire free housing in Paris that didn't quite work out)... She was a smart cookie.

The moral of the story is simple: the truth about the future hurts, and when you have access to it, you'd best be quiet.

Thanks again to Nostradamus for welcoming me into this delightfully irreverant forum.


When the dawn broke this morning, I felt a surge of new hope. As I drove to work this morning, I listened to a radio hodgepodge of Bush gaffs on WPKN... I lost all hope.

No, it wasn't just typical, whining liberal hatred of Bush.

Nor was it a prophetic rumbling about some future terrorist disaster (those are so routine by now as to have become blase).

It was merely the realization that language is losing its war against the all consuming pictographic totalization that is visual presentation... Listening to this somewhat tired style of send-up of Bush done by these well-meaning independent progressive radio hosts made me think I was probably not the only one listening with utter and complete indifference and horror at that indifference...

American Idol... Why? I've met NUMEROUS crack addicts with better actual musical vocal talent, despite tracheotomies... Oh wait, it's on TV... Sorry.

And then there is everyone's favorite thing... Surveillence. Let's reread Foucault together as a class. We've got to reconsider this important and not-at-all-hedonistic Death/Media Saint's significance in light of the last four years... Somewhere there might be something useful beneath all the hash-induced pretention.

At last, let's think about Tunisia, and what life would be like in a homo-erotic drug-dealing ring there, and what we thought of fish-sticks in those circumstances, and whether or not the Nazi's cut the Gordian Knot of Ribbentrop's cherry or if in fact Stalin secretly molested a cabbage patch kid on his way to oversee the execution of the pre-birth ghost of Patriot's Lineman Richard Seymour...


Quenti McRio

As mentioned in my previous post, Quenti McRio is another of my personae.

Once, in Ireland, while quite drunk, Nostradamus ran into a bunch of extremely ignorant German tourists. Speaking a bit of German, he managed to convince them that he was a Brazilian named, you guessed it, Quenti McRio, on vacation in Ireland in search of his long lost Irish slave-trader anscestors. The Germans, naturally being very sensitive to matters of historical guilt, were quite interested in this quest, and in fact treated NostradaQuentiMcRioSchiavo to several rounds of beer before we parted ways...

Quenti has had some more exciting adventures which will be revealed over time.

Extra Props...

Go to Dan from (not about) Delino Deshields, who I might add manages to be amazingly funny on a consistent basis... He gave Nostradamus the big shout-out, big-time "pow-wow" as my Brazilian personality Quenti McRio might say. Plus, unlike certain other blogs, Delino Deshields has also provided a link to Death/Media Incarnate... Yes. For Nostradamus, as for all blogger's, it's all about the traffic, baby, all about the traffic... Malik Sealy would be proud.

On the Mic

Nostradamus, on the mic, spitting some effluence:

"She's coming back, and this time, she is serious...

Seriously, permanently vegitative mother fuckers!"

This was followed by several sung choruses of:

"Terri Schiavo, you funky mother fuckers, Terri Schiavo!"

The crowd, needless to say, was very, very confused.

Oh well. Can't blame a prophet for trying.


Depression in Spring

It was coming. We knew that after months of weathering the storm, Nostradamus would finally begin to crack up a little bit.

As my pseud-manic wordplay on TS's name might indicate to some, I have been in a period of sustained "antic disposition" for some time on these pages.

Has the blog begun, at long last, to subsume me? Do I really think about Terri Schiavo this much? Has my initial impulse to ride the coat-tails of Actual God (and to provide some much needed filler between his increasingly rare posts) actually lead to my, real, literal self's demise?

Time will tell, but for now I find myself increasingly less and less of a person, more and more an unconscious sacrosanct parody of my own deepest ambitions. Is this the inevitable result of all publicity? Have my allegedly farcical postulations about Death/Media been in fact bold statements of literal ficto-philosophic dictum? Or am I merely taking myself much too seriously, like some other not-anonymous blogger whom I might have recently lambasted but won't this time out of a sense of decorum?


Sir Crevo Hat

An important Death/Media Saint, Sir Crevo Hat was a Knight of the Order of The Actual God.

He moved from town to town, seeking an appropriate model for his own life and conduct, seeking a vision that could set his pent, tumbled spirit free.

After many weeks, Sir Crevo Hat at last arrived in New Haven, where he made a house of old cardboard and discarded bumper sticker backs.

Sir Crevo Hat was so ensconced on his plateau of dissolute rambling, that he began to check Finnegan's Wake religiously, hoping to find the blog's curious seriousness a remedy for his ill-besotted soul.

Alas. In a welcome misreading, he took that always pertinent blog too seriously, and his soul was eaten by a tarantula.

Schiavo Bubblebath

...if Michael was at all savvy, this is what would become of the ashes...


Rats Leaving a Ship

A description of New Haven at this time of year. If I see another preppy moving a futon I think I might perspire.

In other news, the blog community is mired in an unbearable slump of late. Can the blogs survive a summer, or is their supposed "virtual" quality really nothing more than a meager image tied to geography?


Our Damnation

Can be read in the lines of vinegar running down the corners of my mouth.

Nostradmus Dreams of the Desire to Make Love in a Pagoda

I was thinking not long ago.

Does anybody really, like, get it?

I mean, come one, guys, this isn't a joke.

Brenda, how on earth could you sleep with Dylan?

Monica, why is it that in space, your backwards cap looks slantwise down at us as if we were perched on orbitting graves?

When the vacuum of an empty post explodes onto a screen, does the hole it leaves in my heart transmit immediately to you, gentle reader, or is my imagining of presence through non-presence merely more backwards, circular, pseudo-Derridean non-supplemantary masturbation?

Terri Schiavo

...Is back in the news! Death/Media Saints be praised!

Apparently the Schindlers revealed through that irrepressibly fair and balanced truth-seeker Sean Hannity that they haven't been given information regarding the location of Terri's ashes. Michael Schiavo has apparently "walked all over another court order" (paraphrase)...

Could somebody please tell the Schindlers what the rest of us know, namely that Terri's ashes, like Caesar's last breath, have been so dispersed through the atmosphere that we are all of us, yes even you and me, inhaling Terri's remains as we speak.

And her silent but not opaque spirit lives on in these words.


Gannon III

Yes, that Gannon, the one after the TriForce... Not the blogger, who has nothing to do with this. Nothing at all.

Anyway a few more Death/Media Saints:

Giordano Bruno--A fellow prophet, unfortunately burned at the stake in Rome (a statue of him now stands in the exact spot)... This burning into a statue is pretty much singular in my knowledge of such matters.

Monica Seles--Again, someone alive. But is there anything more amazing than that tennis stabbing? How stuff like this doesn't happen all the time, Nostradamus knows not... Monica's screams of "Why" were a way of foreshadowing Terri's later, silently articulated questionings.

Rules articulated:

This list is growing of its own accord... But, that said, some obvious ground rules might be needed. Nostradamus is open to suggestions, though several groups of people are rendered automatically inelligible because of intentionality: serial killers, school shooters, highway snipers, executioners, soldiers, etc... Of course, exceptions are always possible, but wheel fry those roasts when they tumble our way.


TV vs. Internet

The coming storm...

Will Internet retake the lead with a succesful WebTV revamp?

Or will TV swallow internet whole as atrocities like "ESPN Motion" continue to pervade the net?

Some have said this is a matter of the old Eye/Ear debate, but I'm less sure.

I think it has more to do with surrogation and a choice of poisons.


Really amazing words from Bush re: Soviet Tyrrany and US tacit endorsement, vis a vis Yalta cigar party... (Quoted from AP story, link pending):

"We will not repeat the mistakes of other generations — appeasing or excusing tyranny, and sacrificing freedom in the vain pursuit of stability."

Really quite amazing rhetorical feat, just thinking about Iraq a little bit, a country where the US has basically installed martial law while the Iraqi government engages in a vain pursuit of stability... Fascinating.


Irret Ovaihcs

This is the most sacred blessing one saint(para(gon/mor) of Death/Media can bestow upon another... Once, in Valencia, Nostradamus, having cured some hundred nuns of the plague, walked out onto a square decorated with flowing red banners and streamers that was completely filled with the grateful nuns all of whom were chanting, with monastic fervor:

"Irret Ovaihcs! Irret Ovaihcs!"

Which is also actually the literal, phonetic rendering of the first post-birth-gurgle of Jesus Christ.

Lost Posts

I wrote an exceeeeedinly trivial post earlier tonight that was lost forever, swallowed in the vacuum of space, by some odd, transpiring event.

Anyway, I had a few (to me) hilarious ramblings last night while somewhat drunk in New Jersey... At one point, an aphorism for the ideal literary critic came to my mind:

"He invades in order to pertain."

I refuse to explicate further, but rather blast my cox-comb hat and ring the May clear again for overt cover.


Brittle Kinder

Did anyone else know that DeLay started out as an exterminator???

What would his job have been in Germany?

That's right, folks, playing the "H" card again...

"What is the "H Card" Nostradamus?"

Glad you asked, Timmy. The H-Card is a precise and important moment in any debate about politics/culture/philosophy. Someone plays the H-card when he makes a comparison, tacit, warranted, or otherwise, between some minor/major/castrated political figure and Hitler. It's actually fun to see how long it takes hysterical Soshana Felman accolytes to throw their deck of H-cards on the table and beg for her autograph. But I digress to another, most likely imagined, horrible class-room experience from years past, when I actually had a somewhat legitimate reason for living in New Haven... Anyway. I want to hear more posts on cannibalism. It happens, whether we like it or not.

Larry King

Has been old for a long time, yet continues, amazingly, to produce brilliance.

For instance on tonights show, he started off with this gem:

"Dr. Ramsland, what is a psychopath?"

She gives a brief answer, other guests chime in.

"But couldn't we just say anyone who breaks a law is a psychopath?"


Now that I mention it, it is a real shame there wasn't a Larry King interview of TS... Some kind of mirror of Larry's non-content (as opposed to counter-content) might have been found in Terri's open vacancy. Alas, yet another opportunity for truly groundbreaking "Art" missed.

This post has been altered from its original form. Its time has been altered for no legitimate reason.

Cannon II

As much as I revile the term cannon, and all of its brutal doubles, gun, blowtorch, tire-iron, its cousin, canon, is one of my favorite terms for its musical and hierarchical connotations.

Anyway, back to the canon of Death/Media:

Joan of Arc--Big-time Schiavo parallels here. Nontheless we can think of Joan as a kind of Anti-Schiavo. After all, it was Joan's activity that was problematic, and more precisely, her refusal to sign a "living will" that led to her execution...(related question... Is it appropriate to call the PVS Terri Schiavo illiterate? Because that would be another parallel, but I'm not sure...)... We can read Joan's canonization in literature (including that rather minor appearance in Shakespeare... A cupcake to whoever from Finnegan's Wake can tell me which Henry VI first! Just kidding I love you guys, and your mature, delightfully candid and unpretentious intellectual banter. Decide for yourself if I'm being ironic, my professions of love may be true. And if not, who isn't up for a cupcake?) as being a neo-primitive step towards an authentic vitalism of the loins. A real reach around the crotch, if you will, a sternum bang.

Terri Schiavo--Oh wait, I did her already.

Jay Williams--Even though Jay Williams is still alive, he belongs here now that I hear he's making a comeback... In media terms, his former status as NBA.com blogger makes this legitimate, as he's crossing back over, so to speak, into "real" (fake) world again.

Socrates--Or as I like to call him, the cool Jesus. Plato was his living will, and Plato accordingly spent his life writing himself down.

Nietzsche--The grabbing the horse's neck thing has become pretty legendary, but that was the moment of his final madness, not his death. His death, by all accounts, was relatively unremarkable for someone who had been basically paralyzed for ten years... Whether N had a feeding tube is a curious question, but I gather not, despite the family's wishes (again!). His anti-semite whore sister would have kept him around as a kind of proto-fascist (a term other derride, but which I adore for their derrision) relic for blonde german boys to stroke.

That's all for now. Consider your inner bitch.

Larry King

Has been old for a long time, yet continues, amazingly, to produce brilliance.

For instance on tonights show, he started off with this gem:

"Dr. Ramsland, what is a psychopath?"

She gives a brief answer, other guests chime in.

"But couldn't we just say anyone who breaks a law is a psychopath?"


Now that I mention it, it is a real shame there wasn't a Larry King interview of TS... Some kind of mirror of Larry's non-content (as opposed to counter-content) might have been found in Terri's open vacancy. Alas, yet another opportunity for truly groundbreaking "Art" missed.


Joke for the Coroner

Get a tatoo on your chest that reads: "I am not dead."

Genius of the Spawn

Nostradamus was leaning against a pillar, people-watching and feeling very cool. As usual, this was a delusion. Suddenly, who should approach but Kingspawn. We had a brief Schiavo, shiavoed a little Schiavo, asked about his Schiavo and he said it was Schiavoing schiavo schiavo. As he left, however, he said something immortally funny, and it was delivered absolutely dead-pan (this followed a lull in the Schiavo, in which Schiavo hadn't been Schiavoed for like ten Schiavos):

Kinspawn: Yeah, well, I really got to go. I'm starving. My feeding tube has been out for six or seven hours now. I got to get a cheese-steak. Bye.

Pure Genius.


Necessary Film

Soon, after some of the initial buzz has died down (which it may have already for some of you who have yet to realize Terri Schiavo's significance as paradigm for media exposure more generally), there will be, no doubt, a round of Schiavo films.

Nostradamus and Actual Rod were talking recently, and we decided that the only proper way to handle such a film would be to make it into a kind of two-in-one, with one plot focusing on Schiavo, and the other on the dying Pope... Scene!

Michael Schiavo sits alone in his home, holding a rosary which he contemptuously casts aside after looking at a newspaper headline about Tom Delay's support of the Schindler's. He stands up, moves to the sink, puts his hands on the sink, and begins weeping uncontrollably.

Cut to scene at the Vatican, Ratzinger anxiously wringing his hands, staring rabildly at a small golden hammer on a table.

Cut to Terri in Florida, (ultra fast CSI fade in from the throngs of people down to Terri's particular cell), suffering in bed. We see her smile a smile of knowing irony and fade off. A heart monitor goes flat. A nurse screams "She's gone!"

Cut to John Paul on his death bed, breathing his last. As he expires, his hand falls to his side, and a picture of Terri flutters to the ground.

Cut to Ratzinger: It must begin.


Memory Lain

The following events take place several years ago:

Nostradamus lounges in lecture, trying to pay attention to the professor's discussion of an article of Karl Jaspers on his decision to ban Heidegger from the German University System following Heidegger's Nazi affiliation. The entire drift of the two week focus on Heidegger has been singular: Heidegger was a Nazi. Nostradamus, in no way denying this truth, was still somewhat interested in discussing, or at least hearing discussed, Heidegger's philosophy in a complex and organic way with/by this famous professor... Alas, it was not to be...

Professor: So class, what do you think of Jaspers' decision?

Hands begin to raise around the large lecture hall.

Nostradamus (shouting out of turn): I think he is a moralizing fool. The way to deal with the fascistical elements in Heidegger's thought was to refute them within the University. By repressing Heidegger by means of this most base censorship, Jaspers did a great disservice to the cause of anti-fascism.


Professor: Well... Okay. That is certainly one way of looking at it. Anyone else?

Genius from Reuters

Subtle Summary from here quoted:

SANTA MARIA, Calif. (Reuters) - Prosecutors are expected to rest their case against Michael Jackson this week after two months portraying him as a man who used his Peter Pan persona and Neverland Valley Ranch to lure young boys into a sordid web of booze, pornography and illicit sex.

I will only be happy when Terri Schiavo has gargameled the hell out of Michael Jackson in the all-time influence poll of no-nonsense nation-states (a poll run by the bureau of travel in the nation of Tlon).

Schiavo for now,




An old friend, in fact, based loosely on me (though I had no Azrael)...

It has always seemed to me that this wonderful name, Gargamel, should be used as a verb as frequently as possible.

After a hard night of partying, I went home and had to gargamel.

Yesterday, I gargameled and everyone in the intersection laughed at me.

If my cat didn't gargamel all the time, it might remind me less of Marie Curie.

The gargamels are gargamel gargamel.

A prepubescent Gargamel once gargameled on a peach pit.

Mounting Pressure

Nostradamus has been having recurring visions lately. These visions point to one, unavoidable fact. The obsession with Schiavo has not yet run out of possibilities.

I propose a grand schemata. A genealogy of Death/Media. An overwhelming gnosis that can unify the divergent drift.

Think hypnotism without the horrible side effects.

Think zombie without the mindless wandering.

Think Crusoe raining on you imprisoned in drops.

Paradise in the Grip of Caesar

Six weeks ago I went to an icy beach with my friend Quentin.

We were trying to find a new home for Quenti, who had been disowned by his previous employer.

The squalid Horrida, vile urchin monger of the sea bed who profiteers after celebrity like an Anniston look-a-like, opened up her heart to Quentin, but he would not be absolved, and slivered on, spikey tail running in the sand.

To be continued...

Eric the Red in Hell


Broke through the haze of Schiavo last night in a dream--

As usual, in hell, damned for my prophetic meddlings, I trudged, a beleaguered seer, from fiery town to town only to be stoned as a heretic anew at each, and laughed at, called charlatan. It was, I knew, the first honest experience of my life. In the midst of the pelting, a figure appeared, in a particularly gruff Scandanivian Hell Condo Complex.

Eric: I am the colonizing white man who killed no one, who stands abreast of your globo-colonial condemnations. I left only my heart and soul in Greenland, not the rot of my commerce. Greenland I left free from inner commerce, reliant on the fortitude of my impermanent expansion. Heidegger enabled me.

Nostradamus: But it is Cousteau who carried your equation to its limit.

Eric: Oh Nostradamus, how could you not have swept your sullen floor free from those squirrel's teeth.

Nostradamus: Eric, your bright beard tints my blood-soaked sight.