Hey! Remember when that cracker went into a Sikh temple and killed a bunch of Sikhs? Lordy, eons ago. Sheesh, I can remember when Mitt Romney named Paul Ryan his VPOTUS nominee. Rereading Vollmann's Fathers and Crows (I have an extra copy if you're first to say please) reminds me of story's mysteries, how THIS turns to this turns to depending not only who tells the tale but how often, telephone-gamed into unamendable lore in the rare case it's not forgotten. Don't worry, I won't play either Tones on Tail or Motherfucking Love and Rockets.
- Was easy. Been listening to Sun Kil Moon the past three days.
- Police state.
- Weaponized debate.
- Whatever's left of the Left.
- Criminalizing dissent.
- While it is worth noting the inconsistency of holding both Ayn Rand and Jesus Christ as heroes, it's motherfucking old already.
- What are Paul Ryan's chances of becoming POTUS?
- Ryan-Bingo for progressives.
- Paul Ryan was right.
- Krugman's obamapostasy will never be ready. Which is not to say Salatan isn't a regal asshat.
- On crackergasms.
- Yes Ayn Rand was a miserable shit.
- When I was nineteen I tried reading Ayn Rand on the advice of a woman who was never going to date me. I didn't stop reading after 50 pages because of the philosophy (or because I knew she never was going to date me), I stopped reading because as a read it sucked.
- And that's the last time the two-word combination Ayn Rand will appear on this shitty blog.
- Yes, but rubber/glue.
- Tomorrow maybe.
- There's a medication for everything.
- What is soccer's business.
- Glen Echo!
- Beckett, for those of you who do.
- Interesting times.
- Yay! Another Sea and Cake fan!
- Feargal Sharkey is 54 today.
- Going for the one.
- Songs for a cat.
- Turn it on.
- You just think there are Sun Kil Moon cascades coming. My touchstones.
- A friend's tweet made me think of this:
They were nearing the end of their story.
The fire was dying, like the fire in the story.
Each page turned was torn and fed
to flames, until word by word the book
burned down to an unmade bed of ash.
Wet kindling from an orchard of wooden spoons,
snow stewing, same old wind on the Gramophone,
same old wounds. Turn up the blue dial
under the kettle until darkness boils
with fables, and mirrors defrost to the quick
before fogging with steam, and dreams
rattle their armor of stovepipes and ladles.
Boots in the corner kick in their sleep.
A jacket hangs from a question mark.