rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

there are sirens all over Charlottesville right now. there must have been a pretty wicked accident; it’s 1:30 in the morning and I’m about to go to sleep, but lights are flashing and horns howling all past the thoroughfare out my window. no other noise. just sirens. somewhere toward Avon St. extended. 

today when I heard on the radio that Obama got the Teamsters endorsement, I thought, that’s it. he’s got it. he’s just been stomping a mudhole in Clinton and he’s young and vital enough to beat the re-animated corpse of John McCain. so I’m calling it now. I called Romney, and I was obviously very wrong, but I’ve got a one in three chance here. so I’m calling it for  Obama. the wee hours of Feb. 21st.

I just finished “The Road.” it’s a very bleak. and, you know, it’s a little much at times. just a little ridiculous, his style of writing. so very serious, that it becomes laughable. but when it’s on – and McCarthy treads a fine line between verbose and poetic – it’s on. like the following passage, which was one of my favorite of the book. kind of sums up the environment, the setting. 

They began to come upon from time to time small cairns of rock by the roadside. They were signs in gypsy language, lost patterans. The first he’d seen in some while, common in the north, leading out of the looted and exhausted cities, hopeless messages to loved ones lost and dead. By then all stores of food had given out and murder was everywhere upon the land. The world soon to be largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes and the cities themselves held by cores of blackened looters who tunneled among the ruins and crawled from the rubble white of tooth and eye carrying charred and anonymous tins of food in nylon nets like shoppers in the commissaries of hell. The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes. Out on the roads, the pilgrims sank down and fell over and died and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and as unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond.

ooh, creepy. I felt that in my swimsuit area. it’s a good book. “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. it’s apparently a Pullitzer winner, also. for what that’s worth.

ok. I’m exhausted.