- Haze.
- Airport on the Deresiewicz article on colleges.
- Obama and Bill play golf at billionaire's playground.
- Inevitability sucks.
- Being the heavy-favorite doesn't mean you go 162-0.
- { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
- Harvestman of eyes.
- Light of other days.
- OK, let me get this over with so I can stop thinking about typing it: It is not Fire Matt Williams' fault that Doug Fister, Anthony Rendon, Stephen Strasburg, Asshole Werth, Ryan Zimmerman, and whoever the fuck I've missed have all been useless turds this season. Casey Durocher or Whitey Alston or Tony Weaver couldn't win 90 with two starting pitchers and three of four most important batters contributing shit. And it is too late to fire Fire Matt Williams - the time to fire Fire Matt Williams was in June, the slump after the May run, when Fire Matt Williams totally fucked up the starters and bullpen. Firing Fire Matt Williams now won't make a difference. And Fire Matt Williams isn't going to be fired. But I would like to thank Fire Mike Rizzo for not firing Fire Matt Williams and I would especially like to thank the motherfucking Lerners (and the Pittsburgh Pirates and their wonderful ballpark which reminded me what a turd Nats Park is) for beating baseball out of me before it again became the object of my relentless compulsion for minor religious ecstasies. Though Charlie and Dave's pxp is still excellent. Fine metaphors abound. Go Bucs!
- Hey, fuck you and your list.
- Hey, scifi, for those of you who do.
- John Holton?
- Hey, Colin Moulding is 60 today!
ALWAYS SOMETHING MORE BEAUTIFUL
Stephen Dunn
This time I came to the starting place
with my best running shoes, and pure speed
held back for the finish, came with only love
of the clock and the underfootingf
and the other runners. Each of us would
be testing excellence and endurance
in the other, though in the past I’d often
veer off to follow some feral distraction
down a side path, allowing myself
to pursue something odd or beautiful,
becoming acquainted with a few of the ways
not to blame myself for failing to succeed.
I had come to believe what’s beautiful
had more to do with daring
to take yourself seriously, to stay
the course, whatever the course might be.
The person in front seemed ready to fade,
his long, graceful stride shortening
as I came up along his side. I was sure now
I’d at least exceed my best time.
But the man with the famous final kick
already had begun his move. Beautiful, I heard
a spectator say, as if something inevitable
about to come from nowhere was again on its way.
