Just buggering about with the tablet. Didn’t I start typing to get away from my terrible handwriting? (Or was it the typing that made the handwriting terrible? I can no longer seem to recall.)
This whole piece is poop, but by assaulting the money shot I think I can easily point out the stupidity:
“It won’t. But it will surely send a message to those who believe in marriage, that they will be viciously attacked for expressing, or merely believing, that marriage is defined as between one man and one woman. Ms. Kolbert provides just the latest example of how the forces of “tolerance” and “diversity” quickly abandon their principles of “live and let live” when somebody disagrees with them.”
Not only does Mr Lorence admit that his side (apparently Christianity) isn’t one for “tolerance” or “diversity”, but the bulk of his argument is “Hey, you guys said you would accept everybody!” which seems like an odd turn about for mudslinging. This kind of “Aw, c’mon guys!” argument sounds doubly hollow from the whistling throat of a member of the church.
I’m sure in the name of Judge Not\the LORD therefore be judge\etc, Mr. Lorence’s church has found a passionately gay man to say some words before the next few Sunday sermons. Actually, that’s not the best example despite it being a nice bit of turnabout, more appropriate might be inviting a militant atheist to speak. The logic of why this wouldn’t please everyone is obvious to any adult.
There are apparently people trying to soften the reasoning for Warren not being wanted at the inauguration, giving idiots like Lorence room to hide, so let’s be clear: He’s unwanted because Obama ran, and won, on a progressive platform, one of the major tenants of which Warren vehemently opposes. While articles like Lorence’s may serve to whip up the angrys who still have time to be upset about gay marriage and not just that they can no longer pay their mortgage, its infantile whininess simply underscores the dumb beast that is that portion of the right that’s still obsessed with other people’s dinkies and hoohahs.
Well, Broken Seal, an itty bitty piece I sold, is now available in the newest issue of Necrotic Tissue.
It may not be the New Yorker, but the cheque cleared and publisher R. Scott McCoy was a patient correspondent. I believe registration is necessary to receive the newest issue, but they’re moving to a subscription only format soon, so you should get the freeness while it lasts.
Crunch ‘n Munch [Crunch grown on plantations under the blue skies of the south pacific, Munch being harvested above the 67’N latitude, found amongst the thaw of the spring tundra] is really the only food that can turn nuts into the most rewarding part of the eating experience. Despite my falling away from cracker jacks, somehow Crunch ‘n Munch maintains a firm place in my stomach [with all the nuts clumped at the bottom].
Still, otherwise nuts are just wood – even their stealthy legume cousins, which are really just clever imitations of wood, and will otherwise never rise above the middle of the pack in any given combination of ingredients. Even almond M&Ms, the Cadillac of M&Ms, are still largely delivery mechanisms for chocolate and candy.
The news media, long being a tug of war between information and idiocy, often displays its worst tendencies on the CNN front page:
Huh. I’ve also heard that there’s no good way to turn putting down your dog into edutainment, nor any good way to sit in a tiny overly white room as your family huddles around the last rattling gasp of a dying grandfather. I wonder how many child soldiers, after a long afternoon of removing the hands from an entire village’s worth of corpses, think: “Jeez, really, shouldn’t there be a good way of doing this. Where’s the job satisfaction? Where’s the laughter? Maybe we should institute casual Fridays.”
One of my favourite bits of work by Jack Nitzsche, who worked with Neil Young and, as you can definitely hear by the end of the song, Phil Spector.
Personally though, I sort of prefered it as the theme to tiny Ron Howard and giant dancing Beau Bridges.
I’ve been remembering my dreams quite a bit lately, so I thought I might start imparting them here.
Last night I dreamt that we – meaning my compound family – lived in South Dakota – it being the kind of dream that is for some reason very specific about location – surrounded by houses that we felt a paranoid mania about watching. We’d scurry in the dark across massive and empty hard wood floors, from bay window to bay window, hiding behind huge white vinyl hanging slats. All to observe, from a distance, the kinds of houses you might find on the edge of a small town golf course.
The bulk of the dream focused on something threatening that I can’t quite recall, but there was an on going side plot involving us trying to puzzle out if Anderson Cooper lived in one of the houses. It was especially odd that what prevented us from really being sure was that he kept entering and exiting the house with Burt Reynolds (amongst others).
I’m not sure what this means, or what had us worried in the first place. Drug dealing werewolves spring to mind, but that might be a post-waking mad lib.