cant remember if sighed in disbelief chuckle laughter, or some sorta gag reflex.. but
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Friday, December 09, 2011
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
i'd never given musicals more than flashing homo-erotic thought, and then i fell in love with one as i concurrently fell in love with someone... im sure most of you have heard of swell season, or once, swell's musical adaptation of a theme all too relevant, all too prevalent. but if youve not had the pleasure of once, it ranks as one of the best ways you could spend an evening with the one you love. i need reminders like this one to drown me in humility and compassion, to remind me of what's important. glen hansard sings from the depths of his soul, or his diaphragm at least, without pretense, revealing more than truth. i was and am still am in awe at the night once hushed internal howling long enough that i would hear purity flow through passion, gracing and soaking my twisted notions in simple prosaic strophe and stanza intended to soften loveless hearts. pain rivaling torture a la internment camp, that of masochists, passes preciously and purposefully away in this portrait of love lost... of love realized. love is real, but it is squandered sharply if suffocated by its' nemeses... tonight i pray for sweet rapture, that which would undo strife, rein in temerity and hush creeping tempest, returning me to a time when i knew no better than to love like a child. swell season's revelations abound... the following reveals how to let go like a man, as little as i am one. rambling...
Friday, December 02, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Stand Up People
Because sitting IS the new smoking...
Happy Thanksgiving
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Happy Thanksgiving
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
We Are the One Per Centby John Kenney
November 28, 2011
Average wealth of the top 1 percent was almost $14 million in 2009, according to a 2011 report from the Economic Policy Institute.
—Washingtonpost.com.
“Shit is fucked up and bullshit.”
—Sign seen at the Occupy Wall Street protest in lower Manhattan.
We, too, have mobilized.
We come from near and far, by any means necessary, some on private jets, others on extremely large private jets.
But you will not find us sleeping in a park and waiting in line at a Burger King to urinate. Have you heard of Mustique? Because that’s where we have mobilized. Don’t bother trying to Google Earth us, though, because we have proprietary military software that prevents you from doing so.
Our numbers may be smaller than those demonstrating in New York and other cities, but we are still a movement, coalesced around a cause, sleeping two and sometimes three people to a villa.
Perhaps you are wondering what our cause is. Perhaps you’re wondering why we, the richest people on the planet, have come together. Perhaps you’re curious whether what we’re undertaking couldn’t technically be called a vacation. These are all good questions.
We’re angry. We’re angry at something we’re calling “imagined frustration.” By this we mean that, except for Congress, the White House, banks, major lobbyists, and the editorial boards of Fox News and the Wall Street Journal, no one is listening to us. And we’re tired of it.
You claim to know something about us. You think we are rich beyond comprehension, that we can do anything we please at any time, go anywhere we want at a moment’s notice, wander the earth in a state of constant bliss, enjoying abundant and fabulous sex. Perhaps you do know us.
There are those in the more liberal press who have questioned whether the wealthiest one per cent truly understand how difficult life is for so many Americans right now, and to that we would say— Oh, look, someone just brought in lobster and a Bollinger Grande Année.
Except for money and the almost unnatural flawlessness of my skin, we are no different, you and I. I don’t know who you are or what you look like or how much money you have in the bank. Nor does it matter. Because we’re just men. Unless you are a woman. Or a child. Or a pony. But ponies don’t read magazines, do they? Unless they’re precocious ponies, like Mister Ed. And he wasn’t real. But I think you get my point. And that is: we are the same, except for the coarseness of the skin on your elbows. Do you know that feeling, upon waking at 4 A.M., heart racing, your mind looking twenty, thirty years down the road, wondering how you are going to make ends meet? Worrying about what would happen if you lost your job, asking yourself how you’re going to pay for your kids’ college or retire? Well, I don’t. But I read a story about it once and remember thinking, I’m so glad that’s not me.
from the issuecartoon banke-mail this.What do we want?
Here is our manifesto, still very much a work in progress, as it’s cocktail hour and several of our protesters are out at the pool:
—All wealth should be shared equally among the wealthy.
—Eradicate poverty. (Note: Maybe a clearer way to say this would be “Eradicate the poor.” Need to discuss.)
—End business as usual. (Note: Several members like the sound of this, but they don’t know what it means. A suggestion has been made to add the word “hours” after “business.”)
—Implement a rule whereby the public cannot look at us and must keep a distance of at least twenty feet at all times.
Yes, I have more things—more homes and cars and planes and art and underground passages and satellites and private militias and a person whose only job is to grow hair that is genetically identical to my own. But when you take off your pants and I take off my pants and we stand facing each other as naked as the day we were born, except for socks, all I would ask is that you feel my skin and tell me it’s not the softest skin you’ve ever felt on a man. And also realize that we are the same, except for the fact that I have four submarines.
Shit is fucked up and bullshit.
We agree.
Except that we would substitute “money” for “shit,” “awesome” for “fucked up,” and “squash courts” for “bullshit,” and add the words “cannot be used for more than ninety minutes. Please respect club rules. Thank you.” ♦
Read more http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2011/11/28/111128sh_shouts_kenney#ixzz1eVJQ8xPt
November 28, 2011
Average wealth of the top 1 percent was almost $14 million in 2009, according to a 2011 report from the Economic Policy Institute.
—Washingtonpost.com.
“Shit is fucked up and bullshit.”
—Sign seen at the Occupy Wall Street protest in lower Manhattan.
We, too, have mobilized.
We come from near and far, by any means necessary, some on private jets, others on extremely large private jets.
But you will not find us sleeping in a park and waiting in line at a Burger King to urinate. Have you heard of Mustique? Because that’s where we have mobilized. Don’t bother trying to Google Earth us, though, because we have proprietary military software that prevents you from doing so.
Our numbers may be smaller than those demonstrating in New York and other cities, but we are still a movement, coalesced around a cause, sleeping two and sometimes three people to a villa.
Perhaps you are wondering what our cause is. Perhaps you’re wondering why we, the richest people on the planet, have come together. Perhaps you’re curious whether what we’re undertaking couldn’t technically be called a vacation. These are all good questions.
We’re angry. We’re angry at something we’re calling “imagined frustration.” By this we mean that, except for Congress, the White House, banks, major lobbyists, and the editorial boards of Fox News and the Wall Street Journal, no one is listening to us. And we’re tired of it.
You claim to know something about us. You think we are rich beyond comprehension, that we can do anything we please at any time, go anywhere we want at a moment’s notice, wander the earth in a state of constant bliss, enjoying abundant and fabulous sex. Perhaps you do know us.
There are those in the more liberal press who have questioned whether the wealthiest one per cent truly understand how difficult life is for so many Americans right now, and to that we would say— Oh, look, someone just brought in lobster and a Bollinger Grande Année.
Except for money and the almost unnatural flawlessness of my skin, we are no different, you and I. I don’t know who you are or what you look like or how much money you have in the bank. Nor does it matter. Because we’re just men. Unless you are a woman. Or a child. Or a pony. But ponies don’t read magazines, do they? Unless they’re precocious ponies, like Mister Ed. And he wasn’t real. But I think you get my point. And that is: we are the same, except for the coarseness of the skin on your elbows. Do you know that feeling, upon waking at 4 A.M., heart racing, your mind looking twenty, thirty years down the road, wondering how you are going to make ends meet? Worrying about what would happen if you lost your job, asking yourself how you’re going to pay for your kids’ college or retire? Well, I don’t. But I read a story about it once and remember thinking, I’m so glad that’s not me.
from the issuecartoon banke-mail this.What do we want?
Here is our manifesto, still very much a work in progress, as it’s cocktail hour and several of our protesters are out at the pool:
—All wealth should be shared equally among the wealthy.
—Eradicate poverty. (Note: Maybe a clearer way to say this would be “Eradicate the poor.” Need to discuss.)
—End business as usual. (Note: Several members like the sound of this, but they don’t know what it means. A suggestion has been made to add the word “hours” after “business.”)
—Implement a rule whereby the public cannot look at us and must keep a distance of at least twenty feet at all times.
Yes, I have more things—more homes and cars and planes and art and underground passages and satellites and private militias and a person whose only job is to grow hair that is genetically identical to my own. But when you take off your pants and I take off my pants and we stand facing each other as naked as the day we were born, except for socks, all I would ask is that you feel my skin and tell me it’s not the softest skin you’ve ever felt on a man. And also realize that we are the same, except for the fact that I have four submarines.
Shit is fucked up and bullshit.
We agree.
Except that we would substitute “money” for “shit,” “awesome” for “fucked up,” and “squash courts” for “bullshit,” and add the words “cannot be used for more than ninety minutes. Please respect club rules. Thank you.” ♦
Read more http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2011/11/28/111128sh_shouts_kenney#ixzz1eVJQ8xPt
Monday, November 14, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
For those of you who remember (not me).
 |
| http://southwestconference.bigcartel.com/ |
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)