May 2011
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scholvin replied to your post: Put bluntly, if you call yourself a reading man,…
TNC is one of the few bloggers I still take time to read.
I was talking to Amy Nicole about his article on Malcolm X in the Atlantic just the other day. Ta-Nehisi is easily the best journalist of his generation.
Put bluntly, if you call yourself a reading man, but don’t read books by women, you are actually neither. Such a person implicitly dismisses whole swaths of literature, and then flees the challenge of seeing himself through other eyes.
This is not a favor to feminists. This is not about how to pick up chicks. This is about hunger, greed and acquisition. Do not read books by women to...
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There's a certain someone out there who isn't...
I think she may have crashed out for the evening, so if you guys would be so kind as to flood her inbox with get-well wishes for when she wakes up in the morning, well, I’d greatly appreciate it.
Cratering - Impatiens →
What you probably shouldn’t do, neighbor, is to interrupt the party I’m hosting to angrily berate me for ten minutes on my porch, and in the course of doing so, imply I’m a liar and insult the intelligence of my child, you soulless, wretched, miserable, dead-to-me-forever fucking truckstop whore.
John is pretty much my new hero.
Stepping in it, Memorial Day style
inthefade:
“Mr. Hamilton’s death was recorded in an obscure government database called the Beneficiary Identification Records Locator Subsystem death file, which contains records for all veterans receiving benefits since 1973. The file provides a detailed portrait of the mental and physical wounds of veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the high rate of suicides and risky,...
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Liking is for cowards. Go for what hurts.
sniffyjenkins:
Jonathan Franzen talks about technology, narcissism and social media, love, bravery and bird-watching in a lovely new piece in the New York Times, Liking is for cowards. Go for what hurts.
It’s adapted from his recent Commencement speech at Kenyon College (which you can listen to, if it do ya). It’s good stuff. I like him a lot.
I can only second J’s words here. This...
Maps
Somebody make me a map of this place.
Sketch out the contours, show me the pitfalls in my way.
Draw me a big red “X” where her heart is.
Write me a book that tells me what to do.
With chapter and verse about the things that make her smile and laugh.
Include a chart to explain what will make her remember me and wonder.
And footnotes about what she likes for dinner and the books...
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Smitten
Take #2, because I accidentally deleted my earlier post. Stupid phone.
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As Promised
Another bit of verse for someone who needs a giggle.
I know a girl… Who has seagulls that tap on her roof She lives near the ocean in Brighton, And does especially well with her writin’ And is hardly ever aloof.
I know a girl… Who writes wonderful stories and lists Who has a curly brown hair-do And a smile few can compare to And has Vonnegut wrote on her wrist. (like me!)
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I Can't Afford To Buy You A Rhino (A Poem For Amy...
I can’t afford to buy you a rhino. How would I get that kind of cash? I can’t afford to buy you a rhino. I just don’t have that kind of stash.
I can’t afford to buy you a rhino. Even my Visa lacks that kind of clout. He wouldn’t begin to fit in my car And his tail would probably hang out.
I can’t afford to buy you a rhino. Do rhino dealers even make loans? I...
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Hope Part 2
Hope was a crazy fast 67 Mustang convertible blitzing down a mostly empty four-lane at midnight. Hope was all you could hear, full-on engine roar and airflow over the windscreen and past the side-views, air blowing down the back of your shirt and carrying away your voice so that no one would ever again hear you, no matter how hard you screamed. Hope was trees and white lines and headlights and...
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Hope Part 1
Hope was 67 Mustang, red and low and wide and perfect, and she made you gasp just a little when she touched you. Hope used to send you messages and notes every hour of the day. Hope kept you up late at night, and Hope made you want to get up early to see if maybe she had sent you a note while you slept. Hope made you want to shirk whatever responsibilities you had, wanted you to drive her,...
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The ugly truth of the matter...
Is that Harold Camping, the guy who started this 21 May end-of-the-world bullshit, runs a $74 million organization and is spending his morning counting the donations that flooded his mailbox this week - just like the Pope, Billy Graham, Ruholla Khomeini, and a million other “spiritual” leaders that came before.
The most primal fear we human beings face is our own mortality, and these...
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FUCK
I’ve got absolutely nothing. No ideas for photos, no stories to tell, no middle-of-the-night breakdowns to write about. I’m getting freaked that the creative part of me was fueled by madness and anxieties and personal failings, and as I’m pulling myself together, I’m losing the part of me that made things.
I don’t know if the trade off is worth it. I’m not sure...
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