April 23rd, 2003


You'd think a reporter would know better...

but no. Jules is a thief. I'm sending him an email to remind him of that fact, and I will also contact his bosses, urging disciplinary action. They can also be emailed at letterstoeditor@bostonherald.com , acostello@bostonherald.com , or faxed at 617-542-1315 .

The fact that "all the embedded reporters were doing it" does not make it right. Presumably the US soldiers who were with the embedded reporters knew of this kind of theft -- more likely, many were a party to it themselves.

The independent journalists just don't get the good stuff. They're probably coming back with pieces of shrapnel from US missiles, war wounds, and, of course, dead co-workers. With any luck, they'll probably get the awards too...

A Robyn Hitchcock show I would have loved to see...

On March 2nd, during a concert held to celebrate Robyn Hitchcock's 50th birthday at Queen Elizabeth Hall, Alan Rickman read a poem by Robyn in his honor.

It's old news, but it's a lovely poem... and if you must have a poem read over your grave -- or even your fiftieth birthday -- Alan Rickman is definitely an orator of choice.

"If death is not the end, I'd like to know what is.

For all eternity we don't exist,
except for now.
In my gumshoe mac, I shuffled to the clifftop,
Stood well back,
and struck a match to light my life;
And as it flared it fell in darkness
Lighting nothing but itself.

I saw my life fall and thought:
Well, kiss my physics!
Time is over, or it's not,
But this I know:
Life passes through us like the blade
Of bamboo growing through the prisoner pegged down in the glade
It pierces your blood, you screaming head -
Life is what happened to the dead.

Forever we do not exist
Except for now.
Life passes through us like a beam
Of charcoal green - a golden gleam,
The opposite of how it seems:
It's not you that goes through life
life is the knife that cuts your dream
Around the seam
And leaves you turned on in the stream, laughing with your mouth open,
Until the stream is gone,
Leaving you cracked mud,
Not even there to be absent,
From the heartbeat of a dying fish.

In bed, upstairs, I feel your pulse run with the clock
And reach your hand
And lock us with our fingers
As if we were bumping above the Pole.
Yet I know by dawn
Your hand will be dry bone
I'll have slept through your goodbye,no matter how long I wake.

Life winds on,
Through Cheri and Karl who can no longer smell chocolate,
Or see with wonder wind inflate the sail,
Or answer mail

Life flies on
Through Katy who was Catherine but is bound for Kate
Who looks over her shoulder at the demon Azmodeus,
And sees the Daily Mail

(I clutch my purse. I had it just now.)

Life slices through
The frozen butter in the Alpine wreck.

(I found your photo upside down
I never kissed a girl so long,
So long, so lovely or so wrong)

Life is what kills you in the end
And I can cry
But you won't be there to be sorry
You were made of life

For ever we did not exist
We woke and for a second kissed."