Occupy DC. My confession, my complicity: yesterday we went on one of our favorite hikes to cliffs over the Potomac instead of going Downtown, and even worse, it wasn't until I was three miles into the hike that I remembered I wanted to think about going Downtown yesterday instead of hiking in the woods.
Though it's still vital to remember: Fuck NPR and anyone who gives them a motherfucking penny:
NPR will no longer distribute the member station-produced program "World of Opera" to about 60 stations across the country because the show host helped organize an ongoing Washington protest, a network official said Friday evening.
NPR spokeswoman Dana Davis Rehm said the network disagrees with the station on the role of program hosts but respects its position.
"Our view is it's a potential conflict of interest for any journalist or any individual who plays a public role on behalf of NPR to take an active part in a political movement or advocacy campaign," she told The Associated Press. "Doing so has the potential to compromise our reputation as an organization that strives to be impartial and unbiased."
Dana Rehm? Really? As in nepotism? I don't know, I'm asking.
Also, it is vital to remember: Fuck Man Utd, and fine fucking metaphors abound:
The Glazers found little to cheer their spirits at Wembley. Private helicopters swept the Manchester United owners away from Old Trafford in the wake of Sunday's derby defeat and down to London in time to see their other team, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, lose to the Chicago Bears 24-18 in the latest instalment of the NFL's International Series. This defeat may not have been quite so emphatic but when your regular season is only 16 games long, every loss is that little bit more significant.
I watched City demolish United on Fox Soccer yesterday morning (and Mario Balotelli can be the next great football player if he decides he wants to be, holyfuck - and holyfuck is Carlos Tevez a moron, but that's another story) and the British announcer and color commented on the traffic jam caused by the Glazers shutting down parking spaces for their private helicopters, the American fuckers, fucking with Man Utd true local supporters.
- Is Occupy changing the discourse?
- The image that marks the end?
- Occupy is not difficult to understand.
- Occupy Prague.
- Occupy everything, but you make it so hard.
- Crackers: The self-hating 99%.
- Why Credit Unions?
- The epileptic economy.
- Liberal bias of American media?
- When bad presidents happen to good Democrats.
- It is vital to remember: Fuck Chelsea.
- A thoughtful afternoon.
- My future hell.
- Hilltop v DC. Hilltop should have bought Mt Vernon College when it had the chance.
- Defending MFAs. Fuckers.
- I remember loving Norman Rush's Mating when it came out, but so much had my tastes changed I don't think I gave Mortals a fair chance.
- Speaking of reading, I'm not, not because I don't want to.
- Could this break the slump?
- Darkblack's Sunday Overnight.
- Woke up with this in my head, one of dozens of my five favorite Guided by Voices songs, even if runs forever by GbV clocks (and Universal Truths and Cycles is way underrated):
DEVOTION: THE BURNT-OVER DISTRICT
Late fall in the villages of Pompey, Preble, Oran, Delphi Falls,churchedriver and woods. In Homer and Ovid, the localitiesand principalitiesof central New York, the hollows and corners of theburnt-over districtsvisited by angels in the 1800's who led us to greatness: awakenings,gold, portents and lies, heaven, women's suffrage, and bundlingwith the other in the love beds while we waited for the lamb,the dove, the velvet of the ten-point buck grunting throughthe underbrushto rut. We learned in divine time a year's a day.We learned obedienceand had charismatic children. And now the boy's an angeliceighteen days or six thousand years, as he leaves to serve.He did what we told him: blocked for punts—no one likes toblock for punts—and when his friends crashed the truck in a ditch, he waitedfor the copsand took the rap, nice kid, because he did the act of deliveranceone doesin central New York and made the vows, pledged, testified,and sworeand participated in the sport greater than the coming of the dead,and escorted the exaggerated girl to the prom where hewas befuddledwith organza and tulle and he did not forget the corsage, an orchidin a box he stared into: the white outer whorl and the inner whorland pouted purple lip. He butterflied the pollen with the lashesof his eyes.The flower was his terror. He was not meant to be theindwelling beautyof things and surely he was not meant to be the wind in Iraqwith three othersin his division and become the abstract shape of a god formed from a blood clot.I've seen the pictures, the vague shapes that ripple in the heatuntil I was terrified. It looked like he still moved. Remember fallin Delphi? All ardent and catastrophic and counter, elbows flailing,he ran in the flat places scraped from the gold hills and valleys.