ilovefuzz.com

"Plum-pudding is the term bestowed upon certain fragmentary parts of the whale's flesh, here and there adhering to the blanket of blubber, and often participating to a considerable degree in its unctuousness. It is a most refreshing, convivial, beautiful object to behold. As its name imports, it is of an exceedingly rich, mottled tint, with a bestreaked snowy and golden ground, dotted with spots of the deepest crimson and purple. It is plums of rubies, in pictures of citron. Spite of reason, it is hard to keep yourself from eating it. I confess, that once I stole behind the foremast to try it. It tasted something as I should conceive a royal cutlet from the thigh of Louis le Gros might have tasted, supposing him to have been killed the first day after the venison season, and that particular venison season contemporary with an unusually fine vintage of the vineyards of Champagne."

--Moby Dick, Chapter 94

We all like to eat whale, though I'd never admit it publicly. Especially not in a public forum.

Thank you this little literary goodness on an otherwise boring monday.

It made me wonder how we managed to kill so much whale that I could never allow myself to eat it again. Is the japanese at fault? Start multiplying again, whales! I want to eat you, conscience free!

basti moon wrote:We all like to eat whale, though I'd never admit it publicly. Especially not in a public forum... Start multiplying again, whales! I want to eat you, conscience free!

LOL

Come again,
sweet love doth now invite,
thy graces that refrain
to do me due delight.
To see, to hear,
to touch, to kiss,
to die with thee again
in sweetest sympathy

Come again,
that I may cease to mourn
through thy unkind disdain
for now left and forlorn.
I sit, I sigh,
I weep, I faint,
I die, in deadly pain
and endless misery

Gentle love,
draw forth thy wounding dart:
Thou canst not pierce her heart;
For I that do approve.
By sighs an d tears
more hot than are
thy shafts, did tempt while she
for scanty tryumphs laughs


500 years later, John Dowland still reigns as "The King of Song."

Hah, I sang that one in choir.

Antero wrote:Hah, I sang that one in choir.

Me Imperturbe

Me imperturbe, standing at ease in Nature,
Master of all or mistress of all, aplomb in the midst of irrational things,
Imbued as they, passive, receptive, silent as they,
Finding my occupation, poverty, notoriety, foibles, crimes, less
important than I thought,
Me toward the Mexican sea, or in the Mannahatta or the Tennessee,
or far north or inland,
A river man, or a man of the woods or of any farm-life of these
States or of the coast, or the lakes or Kanada,
Me wherever my life is lived, O to be self-balanced for contingencies,
To confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as
the trees and animals do.

--Walt Whitman, Leaves Of Grass

pablo9000 wrote:I'm going to start a biz where I design esoteric names for imaginary fuzz pedals.
Maybe Sadzoo ( ) will paint 'em-- the names, that is. Because I'm not sure how to paint an imaginary pedal (plz comment).

Here's my first two:

The John Adams

American Eidolon

(I had to look it up...ei·do·lon, \ī-ˈdō-lən\, noun, from Greek eidōlon,

1 : an unsubstantial image : phantom, 2 : ideal

You could use real paint, because everything is a figmaent of imagionation. And if not we could at least imagine so.

Or just use the blood of your enemies as Devi would say.

I like john Luther Adams

basti moon wrote:I like john Luther Adams

Woah... I do too, now.

Thanks, Basti Moon!

that makes 3, including;

http://www.earbox.com/

and

http://www.ushistory.org/declaration/signers/adams_j.htm

Upon further contemplation, my new imaginary pedal's name is

The John Fucking Adams, yo

Let's get some blood on that one, eh?

"Poor Queequeg! when the ship was about half disembowelled, you should have stooped over the hatchway, and peered down upon him there; where, stripped to his woollen drawers, the tattooed savage was crawling about amid that dampness and slime, like a green spotted lizard at the bottom of a well. And a well, or an ice-house, it somehow proved to him, poor pagan; where, strange to say, for all the heat of his sweatings, he caught a terrible chill which lapsed into a fever; and at last, after some days' suffering, laid him in his hammock, close to the very sill of the door of death. How he wasted and wasted away in those few long-lingering days, till there seemed but little left of him but his frame and tattooing.
But as all else in him thinned, and his cheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller and fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre; and mildly but deeply looked out at you there from his sickness, a wondrous testimony to that immortal health in him which could not die, or be weakened. And like circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his eyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of Eternity. An awe that cannot be named would steal over you as you sat by the side of this waning savage, and saw as strange things in his face, as any beheld who were bystanders when Zoroaster died. For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books. And the drawing near of Death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could adequately tell.
So that--let us say it again--no dying Chaldee or Greek had higher and holier thoughts than those, whose mysterious shades you saw creeping over the face of poor Queequeg, as he quietly lay in his swaying hammock, and the rolling sea seemed gently rocking him to his final rest, and the ocean's invisible flood-tide lifted him higher and higher towards his destined heaven."

-- Moby Dick, Chapter 110