So, no slide show of Kensington-Frederick-Hagerstown-Hancock-Cumberland-Morgantown-Washington-Wheeling-Zanesville-Bamgier. Caution won: it can't be a good sign winter storms now get names, but Draco, at the time when decisions needed making, made the Cumberland-Morgantown part at best potentially clusterfuckful, at worse dangerous. Planet flies in tomorrow, we'll pick up the skunk and goats that need to come home when we take her back. O! Fleabus photos by way of request. The renaissance of Fleabus (Sarah's death was pivotal) is remarkably lovely, she's herself again, the best cat ever. Photo above is by me a few nights ago; her old photographer, that's one of her Fleabus photos below, flies home Saturday. Yay!
- What the fuck did you expect? Obama will dismantle more of security net before his second inauguration than Romney could have by his reelection campaign in 2016.
- People concerned about the leadership chaos in House GOP, don't worry, Obama will save the party.
- And visa versa. His obamapostasy will never be ready.
- Celebrate the failure of The Great Betrayal?
- Call me when Obama steps to a microphone and calls bullshit on his own creation.
- Bug splats.
- This week in war.
- Pundits wrong about $$$ and 2012 election?
- Left Side of the Aisle #87.
- Things you might have missed.
- Сеча кнезова.
- MOCO to try fucking over PG yet again. It's a rite.
- Here: Cup an ear and listen very, very carefully. Hear that high-pitched squeaking noise? That's the sound of thousands of Geordie buttocks chafing in unison at the prospect of Saturday's home match against Queens Park Rangers.
- Can anyone tell me why motherfucking blooger shrunk the maximum width of blog headers from 910 to 760, the motherfuckers?
- The photography of Marion Post Walcott. Goodness.
- Bought myself these for Giftmas. Will share, as soon as today.
- My fatal flaw.
- Silliman's always generous litlinks.
- Why yes, the song at postbottom is this shitty blog's Theme Song.
- Happy Holidays from Yo La Tengo.
- Oh my. There's your Giftmas present.
- Was reading some subobobosubsubobjest last night when I clicked the song below. Guess what won!
My son is wroth. Dear summer, dear aging, the bottoms of cups:
If bearing children is a game one plays
with fate and
is a joke: trees as yet unleaved, a sunny -
My son is wroth, my daughter too, and me, myself, I am wroth. A fugitive
on the earth, and a vagabond. Dear opposition, dear trashed strollers, dear
torn to pieces: Wasn't, won't be, isn't me
collecting swords, hanging them on my living room wall, that's my
neighbor, he's recording God-songs, God-songs for the radio, suited up for
long red nights in his God-studio.
Their ordinary cloths, their rubber gloves: "Have you seen a body?
Have you seen one?"