No, I am not related to Gregg Popovich, head coach of the San Antonio Spurs, this gif I found on my twitter timeline taken last night during a playoff game. It makes me laugh. I am often asked when presenting a form of ID or when asked my name, Hey, are you related to Gregg Popovich? Popovich, it once took up pages of white pages in Pittsburgh and Youngstown and Cleveland and Chicago and Milwaukee, it's one of the most common Serbian surnames. Youngsters, white pages, also known as phone books, were the slide rules of finding phone numbers back in the Pleistocene.
- Miles Davis was born eighty-eight years ago today.
- So, finally, after two days of Futile Weekend Blogging, have some Lazyass Weekend Blogging.
- Heat Vampirism: a refresher.
- Left/right coalitions: a refresher.
- Armed, angry white men: a refresher.
- A primer for the new religion of the gun.
- The 49th Law of Power: A dystopian reality event game.
- The state knows what you did last summer.
- Some thoughts on imperialism and anti-imperialism.
- Reviewing Lawrence Summer's review of Piketty.
- Walking, sweating, having visions.
- Maggie's weekly links.
- The New Inquiry's Sunday reads.
- Mariel Rukeyser!
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!—
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.