Welcome to the New, Re-branded, Re-formatted Clambroth!!!

Er, uh, what it says in the header...

To-morrow, the notorious festival of grief and shame known in furtive whispers as "Christmas Day" will mark something good and holy for a change.  The proprietor of this bloggishment, jotto the merciful, will make a startling announcement that will immediately transform popular culture in heretofore unseen ways.  Be mindful of your manners, pray to be predator, and don't forget to leave bear traps on the rooftops this eve before it's too late.

A Weather Crisis Has Indeed Occurred

  I won't be able to update this blog until Christmas Eve.  Curse these confounded holidays.  Boycott them, I say.

12.22.k8

  The nouveau "Clambroth" will debut on this date, barring weather crises.  I look forward to returning from holiday necessities beyond the drawbridges of Clamville with minimal difficulty.  

A Final Daily Week: Damn, King Barry's Good

     The grandmasters of chess are said to see the match four, five, six moves ahead.  Paul Morphy, it is told, could see eight moves ahead, but his was a time of slower and more precise, less crowded neurolinguistics.  We no longer create things and fashion victories in rooms of quietude.  The zeitgeist pounds at our walls to make noise for us, and we must interact.  Creative solutions, like life itself in its crawling stutter steps of halting progress, becomes purely reactive and glistens with shards of cultural pollution.

     Bobby Fischer looked for places with sound muffled by ice and permafrost and tyranny.  He didn't seem to realize that in this day of age the voices always break thru.  Disruptions are as inviolate as the seasons in gravity.  They remain intact and plasticized, molded but never broken or avoided.  The postmodern genius deals.  Paradigms must be co-opted; smashing them into slivers of glass or seeping them aside will make them burrow into the skin of our feet and the soft wet pockets of our lungs.

     In the course of lulling us to sleep with His beige, Metamucil 'n' Marrow-thick choices for His Cabinet, Good King Barry rattled our cribcage with a bold yet cringeworthy selection for Secretary of State.  Lady Hillary, the bane of Good King Barry's ascension, was bestowed with keys to the fiefdom of Dear Foggy Bottom.  As if a scab had been ripped from a healing mortal wound, the gnats donned vulture's garb, darting to release eggs of emotional pestilence.  What hath Good King Barry wrought?  Are we to be liege or leaf, and is there at all a difference in the broad scheme of Nature's Grande ol' Dame?  We do after all enter upon the Hybrid Era, wherein suffocation itself can be source...

     The Good Sovereign's deliciously deviant scheme emerges immediately after Lady Hillary becomes enmeshed in His paramount web.  She has forgotten that He can move both forwards and backwards.  He does, in fact, reverse the siege to his very gestation to smother his rival most effectively and incontestably.  There is no stronger power than that of a nascent presence, a gifted and beloved child cloaked in education, protection and predestination.  This power on earth was the most famous child in the world when Good King Barry was conceived.  

     Lady Caroline arrives in court with her procession.  They need no favored seat at the conference altar.  They brought their own booth behind veiled thresholds and own a legacy of arable soil and estate more vast than either GKB's or LH's. 

     Good Queen Caroline will reign in the year of our Mother 2k16.

     The House of Kennedy will be restored, and the solipsistic, turbulent House of Clinton be kept at a respectful distance.   

     Good King Barry leans back in his throne, eyeing the board askance with one keen eye, balancing as precariously as Henry Fonda on "My Darling Clementine"'s oblique Tombstone porch, awaiting the human contents of his domain's daily incoming carriage.  He keeps his Ladies closer than Wyatt Earp did.  That matters.

     

     

Gathering Sticks and Mud

     A storm blew the nest apart, but that's never a tragedy, it's nature.  I'm gathering sticks and mud to build a new nest here.  Next week I'll post it.  There will be new categories and I'll dispense with any daily anything.  Open wide for daddy bird's regurgitation.

      What could possibly be a more nauseating marketing pitch than that?  Never fear, Polly Purebred, I'll brainrain something more vile...

The End of Days

     My blog will henceforth be dubbed "Clambroth".  I'll maintain the topics listed by days of the week, but I won't be maintaining the pretense of posting each and every day.  More details will ensue shortly.

The Daily Copout

     I've been advised by a wiser soul than I that I'm stressing out a wee much about hitting self-imposed marks in perfect camera range here.  My daily deadlines are killing my spirit as quickly as I've begun.  Therefore, the two or three of you out there who read this on a daily basis will now be advised that the "daily" part of these blog titles is largely hypothetical.  I must leave, I cannot bring my blog with me wherever I go.  I do promise w/o interlocking toes & fingers that I'll be a regular contributor to my own blog and will make it a daily ritual as much as time and life allow.  I need a secretary...Velma, take a break from your ballet lessons, we need to alienate another sucker's affections.