is Christian Gomez's red in the 2005 playoffs at home for spitting on C.J. Brown.
I'm a killjoy, but I'm sure the best day in the political lives of the Egyptian celebrants was two days ago, I bet a thousand pints to one I'm right and hope I need pay off...
It was a stunning and encouraging and potentially pivotal event but remember, all thoughts in every capital now are directed not towards satisfying the protesters still in Tahrir Square but towards the best worse way to put Mubarak Jr back online and, much more importantly, preventing further Egypts now. Think what antenna are twitching and whose dungeons will soon be over-crowded. Perhaps the past three weeks in Egypt sparks an irrepressible movement, but it will need to be irrepressible because power won't not try to repress it again.
And forgive me, this is going to sound snarkier than it's meant, but I didn't find as much joy as many did because it wasn't mine: I contributed nothing more than compliantly paying my taxes and filling up my two cars twice a week with gas.
- Others made the same observation, just without the self-indulgent soccer analogy and the gag that keeps on giving.
- Kicking off, kicking over.
- Real and fake realism.
- Revolution is a locomotive?
- Is there life after Democracy?
- The faulty economic model behind supporting dictators.
- Why it took 18 days.
- Unfreedom is proletariat?
- Yemen next?
- Maybe Algeria?
- Trolling the Labour movement.
- Foucault's Pendulum.
- Braddock PA.
- On the World's Shittiest Human.
- The death of Social Europe?
- What bwuh started.
- I wouldn't vote for Ron Paul (I'm not voting for - or against - anybody), but I'm glad he might be part of the debate.
- If for no other reason than giggles.
- The economics of blogging.
- Fiction's innate conservatism?
- I can recommend the Wright and the Richardson. As for the others, it's a good thing I have access to a university library's stacks.
- Ann Lauterbach.
- One notch above ambient.
- Monkey talk.
corydon & alexis, redux
and yet we think that song outlasts us all: wrecked devotion the wept face of desire, a kind of savage caring that reseeds itself and grows in clusters oh, you who are young, consider how quickly the body deranges itself how time, the cruel banker, forecloses us to snowdrifts white as god's own ribs what else but to linger in the slight shade of those sapling branches yearning for that vernal beau. for don't birds covet the seeds of the honey locust and doesn't the ewe have a nose for wet filaree and slender oats foraged in the meadow kit foxes crave the blacktailed hare: how this longing grabs me by the nape guess I figured to be done with desire, if I could write it out dispense with any evidence, the way one burns a pile of twigs and brush what was his name? I'd ask myself, that guy with the sideburns and charming smile the one I hoped that, as from a sip of hemlock, I'd expire with him on my tongue silly poet, silly man: thought I could master nature like a misguided preacher as if banishing love is a fix. as if the stars go out when we shut our sleepy eyes