" Forever in debt to your priceless advice..." (Photo via Texas Gal ) Seriously, I do not even believe what my phone told me the final score was last night. No way. No way have the Sox dropped three in a row at home to two of the worst teams in the American League. No way did Javier Vasquez come into our house and dominate last night. Nope. I'm sure the Sox put up 14 hits to eke out those two runs, too. But I don't even want to know. I caught a little bit of the game last night hanging out at a friend's house, but have been not paying attention as much as possible these last few days. Wednesday night when things started to look bad against the Royals, I put in my Chappelle's Show season 2 DVDs and just watched that. I needed something to cheer me up, dammit. So maybe this makes me a bad fan. Perhaps I should be dressed in my best and prepared to go down as a gentleman, to quote a famous line; maybe I should be forcing myself through a combination of Calvinist self-reproach and a sense of deeply ingrained baseball duty to be watching every wretched Huggies baby wipes pitch of these losses. But you know what? Right now, I just can't. We've had worse seasons, to be sure. Things could still turn around.

Is there anyone out there? Anyone at all? Oh, there you all are - do come out of the corner, I promise to make this week pass as painlessly as possible! I have to admit though, you will sadly be left to fend for yourselves this weekend. Whilst DGR commences sipping cocktails at sea, I shall be yomping amongst the undergrowth and puddles of music fans in the fields of Darkest Cornwall, stewarding my freshly purchased hiking boots off at the Lowender Festival . This is a new festival for the Wezcundry, and with a stellar South West lineup, we are expecting at the very least 800 souls to try their luck in these autumnal conditions. I do not expect anyone to stay dry, or my boots to look even remotely new by the end of it all. Roll on, Monday! So, to return to matters of a bloggish nature. Coming up we have the eagerly-awaited BAFAB competition results to attend to, and whilst I stand, ripping tickets deep conditioning hair treatment in a muddy field, I shall be dreaming up a new, revolutionary judging technique which may well have our Independent Adjudicator, Rocky, quaking in his fur. All the very best for the weekend, and the week ahead - hopefully we can churn up some interesting discussions from the 'varied' programme I have in store. Quoth Wikipedia: "A mojito is traditionally made of five ingredients: spearmint, rum, sugar (traditionally sugar cane juice), lime, and carbonated water." We'll get through this, friends. - offspringette

One of the wonders of the Web is that we can publish again what we have published before, poems, for example, that are no less to-the-moment than at the moment we published them first and possibly more so. As our current Poem of the Week our poetry editor, Mick Imlah , has pulled from the archive Going Out at Dawn by Ivor Gurney (pictured left) a piece which, as he describes, was not new even when we first published it in 1978. It was even then a thing out of its time, a newly discovered 'fugitive' poem - by a troubled genius , in words and music, who survived the trenches of the First World War only to live much the rest of his time in an asylum. This poem is also a terrible frail thing, one of those written, as Mick puts it, 'intermittently and with variable coherence'. Still perhaps too good for this grey London January. As well as the fear within the poem itself, 'Going Out at Dawn' brings back a bruising novel of the mid-1980s, Richard Burns' A Dance for the Moon , a study in a similar tone of art escaping the wounds of war until slowly being destroyed in the years of political peace. I once much admired this book, its "strange hells within the minds war made", as Gurney put it. Somehow I'd never thought since software for dummies what happened to Richard Burns. I've just googled his name. And he hanged himself in 1992. Learning that is a reason not to pull out poems for this January season. Or maybe exactly why we do.

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Please join the Visual AIDS Board of Directors & Co-Chairs Galerie Lelong, Cassie Rosenthal, Jack Shainman, and Pavel Zoubok at strike! Monday May 21 from 8-11pm 300 NEW YORK Chelsea Piers, 23rd Street and West Side Hwy. Monday May 21 from 8-11pm A night of bowling, dancing, art, cocktails, alley snacks, and more fun than you can shake a pin at! The 2nd Annual VAVA (Visual AIDS Vanguard Award) Ceremony honoring : Joy Episalla and Carrie Yamaoka presented by Barbara Hughes Nancy Spero presented by Lesley Dill Inaugural Bill Olander Award : Stephen Andrews presented by Glenn Ligon Silent Auction of artists' bowling pins by : Polly Apfelbaum, Barton Lidice Benes, Mark Bradford, Geoffrey Hendricks, Markus Linnenbrink, Whitfield Lovell, Tom Otterness, Barbara Takenaga, Mark Wagner, and Lawrence Weiner Limited Edition Bowling Shirts designed by Jonathan Seliger Music by : DJ Little Jukka AKA Nayland Blake and DJ Cur8tr AKA Edwin Ramoran Tickets: Individual $250 Patron Individual $500 (includes a limited edition bowling shirt) VIP Patron Single Lanes $2,500 (up to 5 guests, includes limited edition bowling shirts) VIP Patron Double Lanes $5,000 (up to 12 guests, includes limited edition bowling shirts) RSVP by Monday May 14, 2007 ( Download RSVP.pdf online college degree programs ) Benefit Committee: Derrick Adams, Helen Allen, Marina Ancona and Jeanine Oleson, Paul Baglio, Jr.

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Is there anyone out there? Anyone at all? Oh, there you all are - do come out of the corner, I promise to make this week pass as painlessly as north central speedway possible! I have to admit though, you will sadly be left to fend for yourselves this weekend. Whilst DGR commences sipping cocktails at sea, I shall be yomping amongst the undergrowth and puddles of music fans in the fields of Darkest Cornwall, stewarding my freshly purchased hiking boots off at the Lowender Festival . This is a new festival for the Wezcundry, and with a stellar South West lineup, we are expecting at the very least 800 souls to try their luck in these autumnal conditions. I do not expect anyone to stay dry, or my boots to look even remotely new by the end of it all. Roll on, Monday! So, to return to matters of a bloggish nature. Coming up we have the eagerly-awaited BAFAB competition results to attend to, and whilst I stand, ripping tickets in a muddy field, I shall be dreaming up a new, revolutionary judging technique which may well have our Independent Adjudicator, Rocky, quaking in his fur. All the very best for the weekend, and the week ahead - hopefully we can churn up some interesting discussions from the 'varied' programme I have in store. Quoth Wikipedia: "A mojito is traditionally made of five ingredients: spearmint, rum, sugar (traditionally sugar cane juice), lime, and carbonated water." We'll get through this, friends. - offspringette

One of the wonders of the Web is that we can publish again what we have published before, poems, for example, that are no less to-the-moment than at the moment we published them first and possibly more so. As our current Poem of the Week our poetry editor, Mick Imlah , has pulled from the archive Going Out at Dawn by Ivor Gurney (pictured left) a piece which, as he describes, was not new even when we first published it in 1978. It was even then a thing out of its time, a newly discovered 'fugitive' poem - by a troubled genius , in words and music, who survived the trenches of the First World War only to live much the rest of his time in an asylum. This poem is also a terrible frail thing, one of those written, as Mick puts it, 'intermittently and with variable coherence'. Still perhaps too good for this grey London January. As well as the fear within the poem itself, 'Going Out at Dawn' brings back a bruising novel of the mid-1980s, Richard Burns' A Dance for the Moon , a study in a similar tone of art escaping the wounds of war until slowly being destroyed in the years of political peace. I once much admired this book, its "strange hells free spyware removal tool within the minds war made", as Gurney put it. Somehow I'd never thought since what happened to Richard Burns. I've just googled his name. And he hanged himself in 1992. Learning that is a reason not to pull out poems for this January season. Or maybe exactly why we do.

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Is there anyone out there? Anyone at all? Oh, there you all are - do come out of the corner, I promise to make this week pass as painlessly as possible! I have to admit though, you will sadly be left to fend for yourselves this weekend. Whilst DGR commences sipping cocktails at sea, I shall be yomping amongst the undergrowth and puddles of music fans in the fields of Darkest Cornwall, stewarding my freshly purchased hiking boots off at the Lowender Festival . This Microsoft Rebate is a new festival for the Wezcundry, and with a stellar South West lineup, we are expecting at the very least 800 souls to try their luck in these autumnal conditions. I do not expect anyone to stay dry, or my boots to look even remotely new by the end of it all. Roll on, Monday! So, to return to matters of a bloggish nature. Coming up we have the eagerly-awaited BAFAB competition results to attend to, and whilst I stand, ripping tickets in a muddy field, I shall be dreaming up a new, revolutionary judging technique which may well have our Independent Adjudicator, Rocky, quaking in his fur. All the very best for the weekend, and the week ahead - hopefully we can churn up some interesting discussions from the 'varied' programme I have in store. Quoth Wikipedia: "A mojito is traditionally made of five ingredients: spearmint, rum, sugar (traditionally sugar cane juice), lime, and carbonated water." We'll get through this, friends. - offspringette

One of the wonders of the Web is that we can publish again what we have published before, poems, for example, that are no less to-the-moment than muscle and fitness online at the moment we published them first and possibly more so. As our current Poem of the Week our poetry editor, Mick Imlah , has pulled from the archive Going Out at Dawn by Ivor Gurney (pictured left) a piece which, as he describes, was not new even when we first published it in 1978. It was even then a thing out of its time, a newly discovered 'fugitive' poem - by a troubled genius , in words and music, who survived the trenches of the First World War only to live much the rest of his time in an asylum. This poem is also a terrible frail thing, one of those written, as Mick puts it, 'intermittently and with variable coherence'. Still perhaps too good for this grey London January. As well as the fear within the poem itself, 'Going Out at Dawn' brings back a bruising novel of the mid-1980s, Richard Burns' A Dance for the Moon , a study in a similar tone of art escaping the wounds of war until slowly being destroyed in the years of political peace. I once much admired this book, its "strange hells within the minds war made", as Gurney put it. Somehow I'd never thought since what happened to Richard Burns. I've just googled his name. And he hanged himself in 1992. Learning that is a reason not to pull out poems for this January season. Or maybe exactly why we do.

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