"The comment Kanye made was damn near right, but Bush hates poor people, be they black or white” -2006, Killer Mike, Atlanta based rapper, former drug dealer, black guy from the south
"Ain't about the races, the crying shame, to the fucking rich man all poor people look the same" -2001, Drive-by Truckers, rock band from Alabama, white people from the south
Given an infinite amount of time even one chimpanzee could, if so inclined, retype the collected works of Shakespeare. Take more conservatives and less time and they mindlessly type Conservapedia, which calls itself
a much-needed alternative to Wikipedia, which is increasingly anti-Christian and anti-American.
You really can't make this stuff up. The alternate reality I get drunk and refer to on other people's blogs is more enthusiastically foolish than I could have hoped for. How are they still in charge?
What if the traditional vertical focus on sovereignty, governance, and law were diversionary, leading us to mistake power's genuine tenor and scope? What if power's defining trait were its productive rather than its negative or suppressive capacities? In that case, power's uniqueness would lie in its ability to shape, fashion, and mold the parameters of the self, potentially down to the infinitesimal or corpuscular level. Following Descartes, we have typically been taught to conceive of the self as a locus of autonomy or freedom. But what if this autonomy were in fact illusory, concealing potent, underlying, and sophisticated mechanisms of domination?
I eat the "assorted fruit" kind of antacid tablets, because when I'm belching caustic fluids that burn my esophagus, nothing cheers me up like the sense I'm on a magical junket through an enchanted orchard, eating chalky fruit right off the chemical tree.
The redhead and I live in an apartment building. Our downstairs neighbors have been heard fighting like hell recently and I'm inclined mainly to blame the guy for this, since he's obviously on steroids and has major mood problems. Not that the female is without blame, anyone with a guy with problems also has problems, be they less public or what have you. I say steroids because A) he's physically monstrous, and B) the clinking of his weight bench or whatever sometimes continues into the wee hours. Or did anyway.
Today things changed downstairs, as I discovered as I passed their door after a nice afternoon teasing alligators from the relative safety of a fan boat, which I've decided is the only way to travel. Here's what I saw on the ground outside.
That's a lot of trash and some perfectly good boots. My suspicion that the seasons of the heart were in flux was much heightened by the notes on the door --plural. Click and they get bigger, or ought to.
Eddie getting out of there seems to me to be the best thing for everyone. He's obviously meant to come there if he's supposed to see those notes, and when he does she better have changed the locks or he's going inside, and when he goes inside, and if she's home when he does, the cops are going to need plastic gloves and tape recorders to deal with the aftermath. Whatever they were fighting about before was peanuts compared to her kicking his mean ass out, and the way it sounded it damn near sent her clean through the wall back then.
I love how he's named Eddie. Sometimes it seems the world's just there to entertain me.
How neoconservatives learned to start worrying and stop loving the bomb: Nea Culpa, from Vanity Fair. As if waking from a long sleep, the subliminal voices dreamily wonder... "This one's busted. Where'd we get these damn crystal balls from, anyway?"
Fergalicious? Here are some words that better capture the essence of this person:
Craiglist is good today, you can if you so choose read about a man's desperate cry to be released from his girlfriend's hyperactive libido, and a man who got a vasectomy and waited till his psycho girlfriend came down with a bundle to let her know. Yow.
And there's a great documentary available to download called Militainment, Inc., which as its name suggests is about the unholy union of the media and the military.
A wounded marine's wedding portrait. Originally from here. (They didn't want me to copy it so I modified it. See the black spot I put on on his pant leg? It's art now so it's cool.)
This is still about yellow cake uranium, right?
Here's the face of someone who needs to listen to more right wing radio, so she can understand.
It's morning again. Me and morning go together like pigs and breakfast sausage. I just fit right in there. As I wait for the coffee maker to pour forth its golden bounty, I look out the window, as the old stories say, to see what I can see.
My view is of a hotel, palm trees, pine trees, and like everyone else, cars. I live at a condo development that stopped selling about halfway through a real estate boom. Some of it is owned, some of it is rented, and some of it sits empty. My area is all renters, I think. This is the area where people keep a change of clothes in their cars, whose license plates are all from somewhere else. This is the end of the block where loud arguments occur and where obnoxious twelve-year olds knock on doors and run away. My people.
Check this out:
Food for thought: the United States used to be a country where people were proud of how small the military was.
Alas, all isn't a poppy field. Young people taking pictures of themselves unclad and in flagrante were convicted of child porn, and are now "sex criminals". Sex crime has moved in next door to thought crime and hate crime in the tony development of Meaningless Acres.
It's a great day to listen to christian comedy! The audio file from here is a Vancouveriffic podcast called Generation Exploitation, which is extremely good, and can be found here.
And, as if to emphatically answer the question "How best to annihilate all physical beauty and nullify desire as totally as possible,", it's a repost of the modest swimsuit makin' prudes at Wholesomewear! not that this is the best example of physical beauty, but work with me.
I owe you some good nekkid titty now. YES! YES! Here's this one, sort of: /thanks drive by truckers for keeping our workers safe from their own thoughtcrime.
If you're going to go to work and try to help people, feel good about it. I do. Maybe you're a carpenter, maybe you're a dentist. Maybe you're a watchmaker or a pharmacy technician or a mortgage paperwork guy or a writer. Maybe you kill mice or defend computer networks. Maybe you're a nurse or you pretend to be busy all day and just drive around getting paid. Whatever. When you do something, don't do it because it makes you feel like shit. It's a willing tautology, expressing itself like a gene and waiting for me to grab onto it: if you really hate it you don't do it, ever.
Unless you're totally unhealthy, misguided, and surrounded by insanity, generally you'll have more good days than bad if you follow this basic protocol of feel good about what you do, whatever it is. Because even if you're going to blow up the Murrah federal building, at least if you feel good about it you don't sound like a sorry piece of garbage when you explain yourself later.
What kills me is when people have to pretend that something conflicting is going on, like when Patrick Swayze cries in the shitball movie Donnie Darko when in reality he would have been beating off to kiddie porn, or when Jimmy Swaggart pretended like fucking hookers wasn't the right thing to do at the time. It may not be for those of us with any small measure of sex appeal, but look at that guy or any other tv preacher. At least I get the hookers thing; people gotta get some ass.
Enter the mayor of San Francisco. He comes along and admits to an alcohol problem to try to shift the blame from himself to what I can only assume is some kind of his other self. Sure. It might play in the media, but no actual, single, sentient individual can possible believe this foolishness. I mean let's see a picture of the broad. Would I hit it? Let's talk it over! But no. This will instead become, as everything is, another political football.
What's actually the worst insult, if not the most elaborate or entertaining, is the simple fact that this man has no balls. Mark Foley ring a bell? It's not just right wing closet homos like him and Pastor Ted; denial knows no political affiliation.
An A. Shield watch movement in a Waltham with 64 Jewels. Hour, minute, and second hands, so the regular seventeen, but the rotor rests on a whole perimeter of them, so it's for function. Oh, did I say seventeen in the basic movement? There aren't, because the third wheel sits in a brass bushing.Puh-leeze. Still, a very uncommon watch. It came through the shop and I thought I'd mention it.
