Monthly Archives: September 2012

Sunday Morning Video: WKRP- Les’s Groupie

Dr. Johnny Fever plays a Dr. Johh tune at the start of the episode and then gets a call from Les’s fan. Hilarity ensues:

Not Them

This isn’t likely to hurt Mitt much, really. 

I mean, I’d love to be wrong, and see him lose 90-10 instead of 60-40 like he probably will, but come on. 

This is what Republicans basically think. 

Everybody but them is getting away with something. 

Everybody but them is getting some kind of special government help to succeed.

Everybody but them has unearned happiness, undeserved prosperity, and suspect advantages. 

They don’t see themselves when Mitt talks about people who don’t pay income taxes, even if they don’t pay income taxes because they’re old, or have kids, or don’t make enough money. They don’t see themselves as beneficiaries of government help, even if they are. 

These are the 27 percenters and probably another 10 percent for good measure. Government is something other people benefit from. Black people, mostly, and lazy people, and immigrants. Not them. 

They’ve been told this for years and years and years, basically without having to ever once confront an opinion to the contrary, and it’s so ingrained in them you can hold up their tax returns and show them on the goddamn forms what government benefits they received and they’ll still spout this at you: 

Because THAT’S NOT THEM. 

And they are voting for Mitt Romney the way they voted for John McCain and George W. Bush and Saint Ronnie Reagan and every other Republican critter who ever ran for office on making you feel like you were at least better than somebody. They are voting out of a staggering, bullying desperation to keep kicking the weaker kid, even if the weaker kid is their reflection in a mirror. 

They don’t see themselves as part of a system. They see themselves as the victims of it. That Mitt secretly holds them in contempt doesn’t matter. They don’t know who they are, so they assume he’s kicking somebody else. 

A. 

Saturday Night Music: Burning Down The House

Once upon a time there was an art rock band that had a few big hits. This is one of them:

Saturday Night Music: Burning Down The House

Once upon a time there was an art rock band that had a few big hits. This is one of them:

Saturday bonus Obsession – Wile E. Bibi edition

Hi all – the marvelous Ms. Athenae gave mepermisso to do a Saturday Special.

Whuffo whuffo?

This:

Bibi Shows the UN a Bomb

Rush Limbaugh.com ^| September 27, 2012 | Rush Limbaugh

Posted on Thursday, September 27, 2012 4:36:35
PM byKaslin

RUSH: Benjamin Netanyahu is delivering his speech at the United Nations
General Assembly. I just tuned into a bit of it here during the break, and it’s
awesome. It’s very, very well done. It’s an exceptional speech, all about Iran’s
nuclear weapons and how they differ from the Soviets, for example, in having
nuclear weapons and why.

BREAK TRANSCRIPT

RUSH: Benjamin Netanyahu, who may be the closest thing we have to a Ronald
Reagan or Margaret Thatcher today, Benjamin Netanyahu is at the United Nations.
He’s giving a great speech, and he’s now using a visual aid. He’s got a picture
of a bomb, a circular bomb with a fuse coming out of the top, and he’s
explaining where Iran is. No interpreter needed for this. He is explaining to
the dictators at the UN how it all works. It’s fabulous. (laughing) It is great.
I’ve never seen this.I’ve never seen a visual aid at a United Nations General
Assembly major address like this.

Neither have I.

Here’s a tweet from a journalist, Chris Hayes: “Bibi veering into self-parody
with a drawing of a bomb with a lit fuse.” So the media’s making fun of
Netanyahu for his visual aid of the bomb, that he’s veering into self-parody.
And actually, he’s just trying to explain to the essence of a bunch of second
graders in this room what he’s talking about.

END TRANSCRIPT

To: Kaslin

Someone needs to Photoshop a birth certificate for this man saying he was
born here. Then he can run for President.

5 posted on Thursday, September 27, 2012 4:40:53 PM bywolfpat (Not to know what has
been transacted in former times is to be always a child. — Cicero)

To: moehoward
A handsome fellow then and now!

Guess that makes me a BibiChick!

12 posted on Thursday, September 27, 2012 5:06:35 PM byhummingbird (Pray without
ceasing. Pray for peace.)

To: verum ago

Bibi: I think he is pretty badass, too. And, he is the closest we have come
to a statesman in quite a while.

14 posted on Thursday, September 27, 2012 5:11:39 PM byhummingbird (Pray without
ceasing. Pray for peace.)

To: moehoward

*Swoon*

23 posted on Thursday, September 27, 2012 11:31:18 PM byMS.BEHAVIN (Women who behave
rarely make history)
Of course, one Freeper always has to spoil everything:

To: Kaslin

I thought the choice of graphic was awful. He’s talking about nuclear weapons
and he shows a drawing of an 18th century bomb. Blah
. A mushroom cloud would
have been more appropriate. This was a lost opportunity...the graphic is the
only thing that will be remembered as a representation of that speech by 99.9%
of people.

22 posted on Thursday, September 27, 2012 10:05:38 PM byPharmboy (Democrats lie because
they must.)
Ya think?
.

Bibibomb2
.

BibiBomb3
.
BibiBomb4
.
BibiBomb5
.
BibiBomb7
.
BibiBomb6
.
BibiBomb8
.
BibiBomb9
.
Thank god the Freeperati were right again.
EVERYONE’s talking about “red lines” this week.
Heh.

Tagged , ,
Adrastos, Big Damn Heroes, Diary, Hurricane Katrina & Federal Flood, New Orleans

Requiem for the Picayune: the Rising Tide 7 Media Panel

The estimable Jason Berry aka Ashe Dambala filmed the Rising Tide conference for the second year in a row. He did double duty as one of my panelists this time around. It was the end of a long day and everyone, myself included, was exhausted. The mood in the room was positively funereal. I looked at the audience and saw a section of former and soon-to-be-former Picayune-ites and decided to play it straight for once. I had a few puns and zingers planned but had to file them away for future use. Tone is everything when you’re performing in public so I had to shackle Shecky.

My goal as moderator was to get NOLA.com’s James O’Byrne on the record with the paper’s position. I’d promised him fair treatment and I believe I kept my word. One of the puns I discarded was a play on the similarity of his last name to the leader of one of my all-time favorite bands. I saved it just for y’all: O’Byrning Down The House. It’s what Advance publication has done to the Times-Picayune, after all.

At the party the night before the conference I had a long chat with former TP photog John McCusker. His take: the Times Picayune as we knew it, is already dead, the formal interment will be Monday, October 1st but the spirit left the body the day of the great bloodbath in the newsroom earlier this summer.

Back to the panel. I made a new friend, laid off Picayune reporter, Katy Reckdahl, who stole the show with her insightful comments and keen analysis. As I said before, I wasn’t really on my game. I even passed up a straight line from my friend Clay who asked the last question of the panel. I usually never pass up straight lines but this time I did. There’s nothing funny about the demise of a local institution and 200 people being fired. Sounds Romneyesque, doesn’t it?

I mentioned the funereal atmosphere. Since it’s New Orleans, you might think that it would be a jazz funeral. Nope. It felt like one of those funerals that has you poleaxed because it was for someone who died way too young. I recall being at the funeral of an elderly in-law who was born cranky and stayed that way until her death in her Nineties. My brother-in-law turned to me and said “that was the period at the end of the sentence.” He was talking about his Grandmother but he was absolutely right.

The death of our daily paper merits stronger punctuation than a period but since I don’t believe in exclamation points, I am somewhat at a loss. Suffice it to say that the death of the Picayune we used to know feels like a crushing blow because of how important the paper and its staff were to all of us after Katrina and the Federal Flood.The reporters and staff at the Times-Pic were like soldiers who became a family because of shared circumstances and, yes, suffering.They became a part of the community’s extended family as well. That’s why this hurts us so much.

My primary lament is not for the *form* of the paper but for the way its institutional memory has been erased by rich cocksuckers from New Jersey and their local henchmen. If I thought they could be shamed, I’d give it a shot but shameless is as shameless does. Uh oh, I sound like Forrest Fucking Gump.The suits have erased the institutional memory of their own news organization by discarding talented people like my friend, Stephanie Grace, whose insightful political columns I already miss.

Okay before I get even more maudlin and morose, it’s time to pour a shot of Jamesons, toast the end of an era and cue up the media panel:

Rising Tide 7 – Black and White and Red All Over from Jason Berry on Vimeo.

Athenae, So Called Liberal Media

Obama Single-Handedly Surrenders America to Radical Islam

Quoth Zombie Andrew Breitbart:

Obama left precious little time to address the civil war in Syria or the threat of a nuclear Iran. He gave several pages to assuaging the feelings of radical Muslims angry about a YouTube video; he provided a few sentences to the question of what to do about a nuclear-armed Iran, saying only that “time is not unlimited” for talks.

Yes. What he should have done was tell people to make stupid fucking YouTube videos in attention-seeking maneuvers. For free speech.

I am just about done equating people waving their e-penises around with First Amendment martyrs. There is a vast difference between standing up for one’s rights in the face of actual persecution, and deliberately setting shit on fire so as to complain about the amount of time it takes for someone to sound the alarm.

Are people allowed to draw stupid cartoons of Muhammed and make offensive videos? Sure. But it’s entirely possible to separate “allowed” from “the president of the United States needs to encourage it from the podium at the UN or else he hates the freedomz.”

A.

Uncategorized

Weekend Question Thread

Best party you’ve ever been to?

A.

Adrastos, Big Damn Heroes, Diary, Hurricane Katrina & Federal Flood

Requiem for the Picayune: the Rising Tide 7 Media Panel

The estimable Jason Berry aka Ashe Dambala filmed the Rising Tide conference for the second year in a row. He did double duty as one of my panelists this time around. It was the end of a long day and everyone, myself included, was exhausted. The mood in the room was positively funereal. I looked at the audience and saw a section of former and soon-to-be-former Picayune-ites and decided to play it straight for once. I had a few puns and zingers planned but had to file them away for future use. Tone is everything when you’re performing in public so I had to shackle Shecky.

My goal as moderator was to get NOLA.com’s James O’Byrne on the record with the paper’s position. I’d promised him fair treatment and I believe I kept my word. One of the puns I discarded was a play on the similarity of his last name to the leader of one of my all-time favorite bands. I saved it just for y’all: O’Byrning Down The House. It’s what Advance publication has done to the Times-Picayune, after all.

At the party the night before the conference I had a long chat with former TP photog John McCusker. His take: the Times Picayune as we knew it, is already dead, the formal interment will be Monday, October 1st but the spirit left the body the day of the great bloodbath in the newsroom earlier this summer.

Back to the panel. I made a new friend, laid off Picayune reporter, Katy Reckdahl, who stole the show with her insightful comments and keen analysis. As I said before, I wasn’t really on my game. I even passed up a straight line from my friend Clay who asked the last question of the panel. I usually never pass up straight lines but this time I did. There’s nothing funny about the demise of a local institution and 200 people being fired. Sounds Romneyesque, doesn’t it?

I mentioned the funereal atmosphere. Since it’s New Orleans, you might think that it would be a jazz funeral. Nope. It felt like one of those funerals that has you poleaxed because it was for someone who died way too young. I recall being at the funeral of an elderly in-law who was born cranky and stayed that way until her death in her Nineties. My brother-in-law turned to me and said “that was the period at the end of the sentence.” He was talking about his Grandmother but he was absolutely right.

The death of our daily paper merits stronger punctuation than a period but since I don’t believe in exclamation points, I am somewhat at a loss. Suffice it to say that the death of the Picayune we used to know feels like a crushing blow because of how important the paper and its staff were to all of us after Katrina and the Federal Flood.The reporters and staff at the Times-Pic were like soldiers who became a family because of shared circumstances and, yes, suffering.They became a part of the community’s extended family as well. That’s why this hurts us so much.

My primary lament is not for the *form* of the paper but for the way its institutional memory has been erased by rich cocksuckers from New Jersey and their local henchmen. If I thought they could be shamed, I’d give it a shot but shameless is as shameless does. Uh oh, I sound like Forrest Fucking Gump.The suits have erased the institutional memory of their own news organization by discarding talented people like my friend, Stephanie Grace, whose insightful political columns I already miss.

Okay before I get even more maudlin and morose, it’s time to pour a shot of Jamesons, toast the end of an era and cue up the media panel:

Rising Tide 7 – Black and White and Red All Over fromJason Berry onVimeo.

Athenae, Stupid Republican Tricks

Booty. Called.

Republicans were never going to dump Akin, not really. Sure, they made a show of abhorring what he said, but in the end, he’s still not a Damnable Liberal, and so the 27 percent of people who’d vote for a syphillitic hamster if it had an R shaved into its fur will turn out, and the bright lights of the party will support him, and all will be as it was.

A.

Diary, Doc

Love of My Life

I had this post worked out in my head for weeks. I had it built until about four hours ago when someone decided that “Hey, when we say something is due on X day, that means whenever, right?”

The concept was simple: This summer, The Missus, The Midget and I went to the Wisconsin Dells for a summer get away. One of the things we did was the rather campy tourist trap thing known as “The Dells Mining Company.” They sell you a giant bucket of sludge with raw gems in it and then try to get you to up the ante by getting a few of those things turned into polished gems and jewelry.

The Midget pulled a lump out of her sifting bin and stared at it with a scrunched up face. “It looks like a meatball!” she said as she rolled the round rock in her hand. She was happy to have it and planned to keep it.

The lady at the counter told us it was a garnet, which sent my wife’s eyes a’sparkling. She has always loved garnets, so much so, she has forsaken her actual birthstone and adopted the red gems as her own. After a bit of back and forth, we agreed to have a couple stones cut from the raw rock. It would take 6-8 weeks and they’d be mailed to us.

I hatched a plan in my head to ferry away the stones from the mail, have them put into some nice earrings and have them for her on our anniversary, which is today.The lady at the jewelry store swore that it would be no problem to have these by the 28th, or even a day earlier. She told me to come back on the 27th and everything would be fine. We chatted a bit about how these stones came to be and what it took to get them there. How it was that something so big and lumpy and non-descript could be polished and shaped into something so worthwhile.

Then, I started thinking about my post. I wanted to do the perfect metaphor post. It was a lead-pipe cinch.

If you knew me back when I met her, you’d know that I was probably the least likely person on Earth to land my wife. I was rough, crude and off-putting. In other words, pretty much like now, but imagine it magnified. It took about a dozen stops and starts, a “OK Fuck It” move to Missouri, about $600,000 in long-distance charges, a midnight run away from Wisconsin with nothing but 10 sweaters and a broken coffee pot, a shaming moment from our parents, a series of epic misfortunes and 18 months of eating Ramen so we could save enough money to do our wedding the way we wanted to, but we got here.

However, my wife isn’t great for these reasons. She’s great because she saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. She rubbed away the dirt, cut away the crap and tried to polish me up so that I could see what she saw, and maybe other people could, too.

Over the past 10 years, we have worked the problems we faced, we have found our way and we have done it because of her. She took the initiative to give me one more phone call after I was in the “I’m not talking about her anymore” phase. She realized that we fit together, even if neither of us really saw how at that point. She cut the gem, whatever it was, from the heart of the mess and shined it.

So, here I was today with this post that had info about gem cutting and jewelry making and this wonderful metaphor of life. It was done and waiting for the earrings to arrive. The closing was going to be tonight when I gave them to her at dinner.

I stopped by to pick them up, only to get a blank stare from the woman at the counter. Turns out, that instead of putting “Due Date 9/27” on the package, she needed to put “Due Date 9/27 RUSH” on the package. Apparently that’s the difference between having earrings for my wife and not.

The woman who sold them to me was apologetic. The owner was apoplectic.

I offered to drive to the goldsmith’s and pick them up. They balked. I guess telling a random guy where a shit ton of gold has been sent isn’t a good business plan.

I then offered to meet the goldsmith at a coffee house or a freeway exit ramp or something. No dice.

I told them if they didn’t want to have me drive to the goldsmith, I’d
pay for the gas for them to drive out there. That apparently didn’t work
either.

They told me they’d call me in an hour but they’d work it out. Turns out, that meant that the earrings weren’t done, but they would be done and they’d be happy to give me a pair of earrings to “present” to my wife as a symbol of what was coming.

Right. Because nothing says, “Happy Anniversary” like saying, “Here are some great earrings, but they’re not actually yours.”

Like so much of everything else that happened to us leading up to that wedding, this wasn’t going to be easy.

In July of that year, her grandfather died.

In August of that year, my dad’s mom died. I still have the invitation response card she sent back to us in June. “If the good Lord is willing,” she wrote on the back of the card. “I’ll be there!”

Two weeks before my wedding, my uncle died

My grandmother (mom’s mom) was the reason we were ever able to make that leap of faith and run away from everything and cling to each other. She was so goddamned stubborn that she swore cancer wouldn’t take her before she saw us wed.

After we opened gifts that following morning, I drove her home and hugged her goodbye. When we left her house, a sadness came over me.

“What’s wrong?” my bride asked.

“I can’t say for sure,” I began. “But I have this horrible feeling I just said goodbye to my grandmother for the last time.”

I was right. Three weeks later, she was gone.

I was pondering this when the phone rang. It was the jewelry store. No hope of getting them until Monday. The goldsmith sent a picture for me and the jewelry store sent along a gift card as an apology.

I stopped for a minute, thinking I should be really pissed off. I smiled instead and said, “Thanks for trying. I’ll pick the stuff up this afternoon.”

Maybe it wasn’t the gem that typified who we were. Maybe it was the process.

We improvise, we adapt, we overcome. We try, we fail, we forgive. We love and we cherish.

And we also love to tell stories.

We can add this one to the pile of them we built together over the past 10 years.

Athenae, Diary

Friday Ferretblogging

In which Riot photobombs the nice portrait of Bucky I had going on: 

Uploaded from the Photobucket Android App

A. 

Athenae, Diary

Friday Ferretblogging

In which Riot photobombs the nice portrait of Bucky I had going on: 

Uploaded from the Photobucket Android App

A. 

Diary, Doc

Love of My Life

I had this post worked out in my head for weeks. I had it built until about four hours ago when someone decided that “Hey, when we say something is due on X day, that means whenever, right?”

The concept was simple: This summer, The Missus, The Midget and I went to the Wisconsin Dells for a summer get away. One of the things we did was the rather campy tourist trap thing known as “The Dells Mining Company.” They sell you a giant bucket of sludge with raw gems in it and then try to get you to up the ante by getting a few of those things turned into polished gems and jewelry.

The Midget pulled a lump out of her sifting bin and stared at it with a scrunched up face. “It looks like a meatball!” she said as she rolled the round rock in her hand. She was happy to have it and planned to keep it.

The lady at the counter told us it was a garnet, which sent my wife’s eyes a’sparkling. She has always loved garnets, so much so, she has forsaken her actual birthstone and adopted the red gems as her own. After a bit of back and forth, we agreed to have a couple stones cut from the raw rock. It would take 6-8 weeks and they’d be mailed to us.

I hatched a plan in my head to ferry away the stones from the mail, have them put into some nice earrings and have them for her on our anniversary, which is today.The lady at the jewelry store swore that it would be no problem to have these by the 28th, or even a day earlier. She told me to come back on the 27th and everything would be fine. We chatted a bit about how these stones came to be and what it took to get them there. How it was that something so big and lumpy and non-descript could be polished and shaped into something so worthwhile.

Then, I started thinking about my post. I wanted to do the perfect metaphor post. It was a lead-pipe cinch.

If you knew me back when I met her, you’d know that I was probably the least likely person on Earth to land my wife. I was rough, crude and off-putting. In other words, pretty much like now, but imagine it magnified. It took about a dozen stops and starts, a “OK Fuck It” move to Missouri, about $600,000 in long-distance charges, a midnight run away from Wisconsin with nothing but 10 sweaters and a broken coffee pot, a shaming moment from our parents, a series of epic misfortunes and 18 months of eating Ramen so we could save enough money to do our wedding the way we wanted to, but we got here.

However, my wife isn’t great for these reasons. She’s great because she saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. She rubbed away the dirt, cut away the crap and tried to polish me up so that I could see what she saw, and maybe other people could, too.

Over the past 10 years, we have worked the problems we faced, we have found our way and we have done it because of her. She took the initiative to give me one more phone call after I was in the “I’m not talking about her anymore” phase. She realized that we fit together, even if neither of us really saw how at that point. She cut the gem, whatever it was, from the heart of the mess and shined it.

So, here I was today with this post that had info about gem cutting and jewelry making and this wonderful metaphor of life. It was done and waiting for the earrings to arrive. The closing was going to be tonight when I gave them to her at dinner.

I stopped by to pick them up, only to get a blank stare from the woman at the counter. Turns out, that instead of putting “Due Date 9/27” on the package, she needed to put “Due Date 9/27 RUSH” on the package. Apparently that’s the difference between having earrings for my wife and not.

The woman who sold them to me was apologetic. The owner was apoplectic.

I offered to drive to the goldsmith’s and pick them up. They balked. I guess telling a random guy where a shit ton of gold has been sent isn’t a good business plan.

I then offered to meet the goldsmith at a coffee house or a freeway exit ramp or something. No dice.

I told them if they didn’t want to have me drive to the goldsmith, I’d
pay for the gas for them to drive out there. That apparently didn’t work
either.

They told me they’d call me in an hour but they’d work it out. Turns out, that meant that the earrings weren’t done, but they would be done and they’d be happy to give me a pair of earrings to “present” to my wife as a symbol of what was coming.

Right. Because nothing says, “Happy Anniversary” like saying, “Here are some great earrings, but they’re not actually yours.”

Like so much of everything else that happened to us leading up to that wedding, this wasn’t going to be easy.

In July of that year, her grandfather died.

In August of that year, my dad’s mom died. I still have the invitation response card she sent back to us in June. “If the good Lord is willing,” she wrote on the back of the card. “I’ll be there!”

Two weeks before my wedding, my uncle died

My grandmother (mom’s mom) was the reason we were ever able to make that leap of faith and run away from everything and cling to each other. She was so goddamned stubborn that she swore cancer wouldn’t take her before she saw us wed.

After we opened gifts that following morning, I drove her home and hugged her goodbye. When we left her house, a sadness came over me.

“What’s wrong?” my bride asked.

“I can’t say for sure,” I began. “But I have this horrible feeling I just said goodbye to my grandmother for the last time.”

I was right. Three weeks later, she was gone.

I was pondering this when the phone rang. It was the jewelry store. No hope of getting them until Monday. The goldsmith sent a picture for me and the jewelry store sent along a gift card as an apology.

I stopped for a minute, thinking I should be really pissed off. I smiled instead and said, “Thanks for trying. I’ll pick the stuff up this afternoon.”

Maybe it wasn’t the gem that typified who we were. Maybe it was the process.

We improvise, we adapt, we overcome. We try, we fail, we forgive. We love and we cherish.

And we also love to tell stories.

We can add this one to the pile of them we built together over the past 10 years.

Adrastos, Catblogging

Friday Catblogging: Della the bad ass

Della Street is not allowed on the kitchen counter. Does she give a shit? Hell, no.

Della on the counter

Athenae, Immoral Values, Kids Today

Living in the Crash Position

I wrote this, about Laura Roslin and Galactica:

What’s the hardest thing to do after a loss? Trust, again. Hear the phone ring and know it’s not a crisis siren, hear the love in someone’s voice and know he’s not going to die. Fracking getting up in the morning, with all it entails; you’d like to stay mired in your fear and your anger and your very special alone-ness for all of time, but contact is inevitable, leading to information bleed. We have to start over. We have to keep moving. We have to meet each other and change and push and love each other. We don’t know any other way to do this. We don’t have any other choices. And so she steps forward, into his arms.

And Doc wrote this, about bullying and being bullied:

He probably found solace in being good at something and eventually realizing that being able to throw a ball for a high school team wasn’t the end all and be all of life. He left high school, left college and began to find himself in a world where different was embraced. He was chosen for a show that celebrates that in its own way and allowed him to create his own power.

The first chance he got to take his skill and his power and give some hope to someone else, he turned into a bully.

I went to my 10th high school reunion a few years ago. I wasn’t the most picked-on kid in school, but I certainly wasn’t the least, either. I was awkward and over-eager and didn’t quite understand how social cues (or fashion) worked for a long time. I always said the wrong thing, too loudly. I always hung around too long. And I had frizzy hair and buck teeth that could open a soda bottle, and kids are assholes, really.

And even after I had friends, and was making professional progress, and had a life, I still felt a little bit like an underdog all the time, and pushed too hard all the time, and was afraid of failure all the time, and figured it was just a matter of time until the people who liked me realized I was a loser and dumped me for somebody cooler or more fun. These aren’t THE WORST PROBLEMS EVAR, like I was born white in America so let’s all calm down, but they were things I noticed I was doing as a result of what had happened to me.

So I went to my 10th reunion intending to be all IMMA SHOW YOU PEOPLE, with my kickass husband and my stories about how I was doing exactly what I said I was gonna do when I lit out of town like my ass was on fire. And I looked around the room, and realized that everybody in that room had been trying to do the best they ever could, and some of us really screwed it up. Some of us had been bullies and some of us had been bullied and some of us had been weak and looked the other way, and absolutely nobody gave a shit about any of our excuses or reasons but us.

The most pernicious thing about bullying is that the minute you think about it, you’re alone with it, with something that happened to you that didn’t have to happen, and you have to take that in. As long as you’re passing it on, it’s just how kids are and it’s necessary for their emotional growth and blah blah blah all the shit we throw out there to perpetuate the cycle.

You have to stop and let it hit you: something happened to you that you couldn’t control, that wasn’t right, that wasn’t your fault. And that you have to be okay with now, in order to get up out of the crash position, and know that when someone offers a hand to you they’re not going to turn around and slap you with it a second later. That’s the hardest thing in the world to do, because it’s the easiest, because it’s up to you.

A.

Adrastos, Political Crack, Stupid Republican Tricks

Today on shit Mitt says

This time around he tries to lead a chant and nobody follows:

http://anomaly.realgravity.com/flash/player.swf

Adrastos, Art, Books, Pulp Fiction Thursday

Pulp Fiction Thursday: Gotta hand it to you

A belated PFT post that is, more or less, a one-off joke. So it goes.

Gotta hand it to you

Adrastos

Friday Catblogging: Della the bad ass

Della Street is not allowed on the kitchen counter. Does she give a shit? Hell, no.

Della on the counter

Adrastos, Music

Thursday Night Music: As Soon As The Tide Comes In

I’m planning to write and post about Rising Tide 7 at some point but this song will have to suffice until I get around to it. I’ve had it in my head since Saturday: