“An Unseen World” is an award winning short film by Paul Rosolie that captures the remarkable biodiversity in the Amazon Rainforest. The film weaves together camera trap footage taken on an Amazon Rainforest tributary located in the Madre de Dios region of Peru.
In a binary political choice a vote cast either way increases the “weight” of the party voted for in the case of victory or in the case of defeat.
Either way, the more people that vote (participate) the more chance there is of a balancing of power in order to keep the more powerful in check. The greater the participation, regardless of who the vote is cast for, the more heft there is in the electorate. In voting one does not really vote for him or against her, or for them or against those, but first and foremost for us.
Since political offers, options, circumstances, and environments can alter rapidly it is best to keep the overall participating electorate as big as possible in every election. Both parties, each in their own way, have an interest in dissuading the other party’s voters from participating. If both parties are effective in doing this either may win but what is really reduced is the overall electorate. Thus, not participating in any election decreases the size of the electorate and thus doth increase the suckitude of the power structure between elections.
Not choosing is a choice. Through not voting you choose to increase the overall power of the elite political structure that rules you.
Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.
Autumn is desolation in the plot
Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
Think of the autumns that have come and gone!--
Ambitious November with the humors of the year,
With a particular zeal for every slab,
Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot
On the slabs, a wing chipped here, an arm there:
The brute curiosity of an angel's stare
Turns you, like them, to stone,
Transforms the heaving air
Till plunged to a heavier world below
You shift your sea-space blindly
Heaving, turning like the blind crab.
Dazed by the wind, only the wind
The leaves flying, plunge
You know who have waited by the wall
The twilight certainty of an animal,
Those midnight restitutions of the blood
You know--the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze
Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,
The cold pool left by the mounting flood,
Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.
You who have waited for the angry resolution
Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,
You know the unimportant shrift of death
And praise the vision
And praise the arrogant circumstance
Of those who fall
Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision--
Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.
Seeing, seeing only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire
Turn your eyes to the immoderate past,
Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising
Demons out of the earth they will not last.
Stonewall, Stonewall, and the sunken fields of hemp,
Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run.
Lost in that orient of the thick and fast
You will curse the setting sun.
Cursing only the leaves crying
Like an old man in a storm
You hear the shout, the crazy hemlocks point
With troubled fingers to the silence which
Smothers you, a mummy, in time.
The hound bitch
Toothless and dying, in a musty cellar
Hears the wind only.
Now that the salt of their blood
Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea,
Seals the malignant purity of the flood,
What shall we who count our days and bow
Our heads with a commemorial woe
In the ribboned coats of grim felicity,
What shall we say of the bones, unclean,
Whose verdurous anonymity will grow?
The ragged arms, the ragged heads and eyes
Lost in these acres of the insane green?
The gray lean spiders come, they come and go;
In a tangle of willows without light
The singular screech-owl's tight
Invisible lyric seeds the mind
With the furious murmur of their chivalry.
We shall say only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire
We shall say only the leaves whispering
In the improbable mist of nightfall
That flies on multiple wing:
Night is the beginning and the end
And in between the ends of distraction
Waits mute speculation, the patient curse
That stones the eyes, or like the jaguar leaps
For his own image in a jungle pool, his victim.
What shall we say who have knowledge
Carried to the heart? Shall we take the act
To the grave? Shall we, more hopeful, set up the grave
In the house? The ravenous grave?
The shut gate and the decomposing wall:
The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush,
Riots with his tongue through the hush--
Sentinel of the grave who counts us all!
Trump Reaches the Magic Number to Clinch Nomination - Donald Trump reached the number of delegates needed to clinch the Republican nomination for president Thursday, completing an unlikely rise that has upended the political landscape and set the stage for a bitter fall campaign.
Meanwhile, back at the Kristol Palace, previously headquarters of #NeverTrump many could be seen taking the #EverTrump pledge.
1. We admitted we were powerless over Trump—that our #NeverTrumping had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that a Trump greater than ourselves could restore us to #EverTrumping.
3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of Trump as we understood Him.
4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of our articles and other blatherings of #NeverTrump.
5. Admitted to Trump, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our #NeverTrump crimethink.
6. Were entirely ready to have Trump remove all these defective clots of #NeverTrump blather and spew.
7. Humbly asked Trump to remove our brainless blatherings about Trump, aka evil-Satan, proto-Hitler, serial-liar, neocon-defier, blathering buffoon, smasher of little old lady and little old man homesteads on the blasted heaths of Scotland and somewhere else in America (that rat bastard!) and all around Anti-Christ if we believed in Christ as the anti-Anti-Christ in the first place.
8. Made a list of all #EverTrumpers we had harmed and alienated, and became willing to restore their previously trolling and just plain wrong and stupidhead comments about the purity of #NeverTrump.
9. Gave direct bootlickings to #EverTrumpers except when to do so would amuse them or other #EverTrumpers too much.
10. Continued to take a personal inventory of my brain that told me Trump would never happen and promptly admitted new #NeverTrump wrongthink when it just popped into my brainpan.
11. Sought through doorbelling and lawnsign placement to improve our conscious contact with Trump as we understood Trump, prostalitizing only to get out the vote for Trump as Trump gives us the power to carry that out.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message of #EverTrump to all remaining #NeverTrumps, and to practice the #EverTrump in all our affairs.
"No doubt some of your chums are already enjoying this fast-paced sport. Why not give it a "shot" to-day?"
The monsters from the id that now control the Democrat Party have transformed that party into a mob of undead extras from The Dawn of the Dead. It's an indecent and disgusting spectacle and I suspect there's more than a few million long-time Democrats who are revolted by it. That certainly seems to be creeping into the polls. No matter the good it once did, the Democrats today present as sick and crazed political party that is so greedy and hungry for power that it will do anything, including selling its country down the drain, to get it back.
Regardless of the race of the Democrats' current leader and failed president, Martin Luther King's dream of judging people by the content of their character and not the color of their skin has been transformed into a tawdry thing; a dried husk in which they wrap their skeletal remains, a hollow phrase spewed by the ascendent race hustlers of the party and lapped up by their acolytes.
Until 2004, with the exception of Guiliani's second term as mayor, I voted the Democrat ticket in every election since 1967. In 2004, offered the Insane Clown Posse of John Kerry and John Edwards, I voted for George Bush. The spectacle of the last twelve years of various Democrats reaching for the gold ring did not inspire me to change my view. Only the dead enjoy parties in a crypt.
From the party that gave us FDR, Truman, JFK and even, yes, LBJ, the Democrats have gone through a process of gradual but inexorable devolution to the party of such weak, tepid and compromised souls as Carter, Clinton, Kerry, Clinton Part Deux, Bernie the Crazed Attic Aunt, and of coursee Obama - the ultimate bargainer, the race hustler with an Ivy League sheepskin and the slick suit hiding his childhood castration. But these craven souls the Party puts up are only the shadows cast by the compromises it has made within itself. It has made many compromises over the years and taken in many "causes" each one more dubious and rotten than the last.
As a result of this unremitting ideological promiscuity, the "progressive" party has become progressively more diseased from each submissive encounter. The gangrene that has rotted the body of the party has transformed it into some transnational Dorian Gray. Strutting and noble and handsome when preening before the cameras and the crowds, but putrid and pestilential when you see it as it is in the dull light of its pustule blossoming "new morning."
Politics is a profession founded on and fueled by hypocrisy. This we all know. But, at the same time, we also need a politics that somewhere within it has a shred of uncompromised decency, the dim understanding of honor, and more than a shred of courage. None of these qualities exists in the Democratic Party today.
For some time, I expected there would be a turning around among many Democrats. I expected that the better angels of their nature would triumph and lead them out of the moral swamp into which they were wading deeper with every passing month.
During this year's never-ending primary season, however, I have come to the place where the whole sorry spectacle and circus of the Democrats has finally filled my gorge with disgust and revulsion. The party whose ideals once excited me has become a mockery, a dumbshow, a parody of itself, and a dangerous parody at that.
Instead of inspiration the Democrat Party delivers a brain-damaged cackling whore of unspeakable criminality, a shopworn socialist's solutions, numbing boredom, sheer despair, intellectual and spiritual poverty, sexism, and the worst sort of racism seen since it gave birth to the Klu Klux Klan. Classical racism loathes "the other." The new racism of the Democrat requires one loathe oneself first and last, and to accuse those that do not of racism. To paraphrase Bob Dylan, "The Democrats want to get you down in the hole that they're in."
Instead of telling us what sort of New Jerusalem it would have us build as our City on the Hill, the party requires that its members root about in the ghettos of the soul, to ponder the rightness or wrongness of the very babies of its opponents. Instead of waving the bright banners of America triumphant, the Party dons the rags and bones of defeatism and appeasement and moves about the country like a tarted-up Typhoid Mary, infecting all who kiss its chancred lips. As a party, it's a poxed whore for whom no condom is thick enough. Democrat's a death trip.
No more dates with Demy for me. I'll have no more to do with it. I know I'm not the only one. Day by day over the six months, more and more are coming to this conclusion.
The Democrat party is somewhat like a first wife thought about at a safe distance from the divorce.
You know you loved her at some point, but you can't really remember why.
You know she was beautiful to you then, but now you can only see the ruins of that beauty, and you are glad you had the best years.
You know that, yes, you must have been happy with her and had a lot of good times, but now you can't remember what, where. or when.
In fact, when you think about her now you can't really believe you wasted all those poisoned years with her just because you believed that somehow, some time, she would grow sane, beautiful, and young again.
In some way, in some universe, that hopeshould be true about the people you loved. When it comes to the politics you once loved it is never true. When a party goes insane and degenerates into a diseased mass of hate, "an old bitch gone in the teeth, / A botched civilization" it never really reforms.
Like they say in the National Parks, "Once a bear is hooked on garbage, there's no cure."Click Here to Continue
"Everyone with a message nowadays is eager to take it to the masses. His first, last and only thought is of mass acceptance and mass approval. His great care is to put his doctrine in such shape as will capture the masses' attention and interest. This attitude towards the masses is so exclusive, so devout, that one is reminded of the troglodytic monster described by Plato, and the assiduous crowd at the entrance to its cave, trying obsequiously to placate it and win its favor, trying to interpret its inarticulate noises, trying to find out what it wants, and eagerly offering it all sorts of things that they think might strike its fancy....
"The main trouble with all this is its reaction upon the mission itself. It necessitates an opportunist sophistication of one's doctrine, which profoundly alters its character and reduces it to a mere placebo.
"If, say, you are a preacher, you wish to attract as large a congregation as you can, which means an appeal to the masses; and this, in turn, means adapting the terms of your message to the order of intellect and character that the masses exhibit.
"If you are an educator, say with a college on your hands, you wish to get as many students as possible, and you whittle down your requirements accordingly.
"If a writer, you aim at getting many readers; if a publisher, many purchasers; if a philosopher, many disciples; if a reformer, many converts; if a musician, many auditors; and so on.
"But as we see on all sides, in the realization of these several desires, the prophetic message is so heavily adulterated with trivialities, in every instance, that its effect on the masses is merely to harden them in their sins. Meanwhile, the Remnant, aware of this adulteration and of the desires that prompt it, turn their backs on the prophet and will have nothing to do with him or his message.
Isaiah, on the other hand, worked under no such disabilities. He preached to the masses only in the sense that he preached publicly. Anyone who liked might listen; anyone who liked might pass by.
"He knew that the Remnant would listen; and knowing also that nothing was to be expected of the masses under any circumstances, he made no specific appeal to them, did not accommodate his message to their measure in any way, and did not care two straws whether they heeded it or not. As a modern publisher might put it, he was not worrying about circulation or about advertising.
"Hence, with all such obsessions quite out of the way, he was in a position to do his level best, without fear or favor, and answerable only to his august Boss....
If you are going to have a life, have a big, big life.Click Here to Continue
Savor, savor I say, the rich fuming pile that is the concept of: Black. Feminist. Calculus. pic.twitter.com/26cIN6AHin— Vanderleun (@Van_der_Leun) May 22, 2016
In the outskirts, after living for decades in the cities, it may seem like less is happening around you, and it is, but this is not at all a bad thing.
Since there are fewer people, the people that are living near you in the outskirts, be it town, village, or hamlet are more vivid. This is especially true if they are vivid in the first place such as those sporting full body tattoos and/or long, very long, passages of scripture tattooed across their breasts, around the back, and evidently down the spine. Like I said, vivid.
At the same time there is a strong normality so bland, so low-key, that one would flee from it if it weren't so restful and so reassuring and so honest.
Case in point: Purchase a bag of almonds at a street market. A simple transaction over in a moment. Getting home you take our the almonds and notice the printed tag that seals the bag of "Queen of the Valley Chili & Lemon Almonds." On the back of the tag is a short message from the family the owns and sustains the almond orchard. It's signed, "Marie, Joseph, Emily & 'Lil' Marie" in a plain and simple manner with no smear of green pretense nor taint of some corporate marketing department's focus-grouped palaver.
A family, an orchard, a product. By Us, "Marie, Joseph, Emily & 'Lil' Marie" Life among normal people here on the outskirts. A good deal.
I pity the cities.
Long after his final forms are cast,
And the sculptor's hands are mute,
The line forms daily at his door
To tour his institute.
Long after his final fire fades,
And the sculptor becomes his bones,
Two faces in his house are forming,
Melting out of frozen stone.
To your right, the dreamer strains to wake,
And struggles within her sleep.
On your left, the convalescent, pale,
Lays back upon her sheet.
Their sanded eyes, their still, stone lips,
Emerge from drifts of solid snow,
And whisper life in tongues of brass,
To the shadows of their shapes below.
Plump matrons, muttering recipes,
Shuffle past them in a bunch,
And amble into the arid garden
To stand in line for lunch.
Outside, within the ivy's cloak,
All wrangled by the wall,
The rain-scorched Burghers of Calais,
Gaze numbly on their final fall.
Tanned lovers stroll and pose beside
Those forms, and buff those metal hands,
To laugh and wander off quite calm,
In their sheltered, cozy bands.
The Burghers' flesh and staring eyes,
Know no real pain, weep tears of time,
While those around, quite blithe, ignore
The sculptor's agony that they mime.
Yes we, quite modern, admire them.
We discuss the sacrifice they tell,
Then, laughing, use our selfie sticks
And pose knocking on The Gates of Hell.
You will not be sorry should you chose toClick Here to Continue
If you need extra piety credits, enter your SJW number and choose from the following:
To enter our Change of Color program, press one.
To volunteer to write slogans on coffee cups, press two.
To volunteer to bring toilet paper to Venezuela, press three.
To volunteer to become a doctor in Cuba, press four.
To volunteer to become a patient in Cuba, press five.
If you would like to leave the country you are living in and then return illegally, press five. (To be eligible for benefits under this program your total net worth must be under two million dollars).
If you would like to be on the Global Commission for Human Rights, press six. (Enrollment in this program is currently restricted to Iranians and members of ISIS).
If you would like to become the Secretary General of the United Nations, press seven.
If you would like to listen to the rest of this recorded message in a voice of a different gender, press eight.
You will have 76 genders to choose from, including none. If you choose none, the voice you hear will be randomly chosen by a randomly-chosen computer built at our fully unionized, government owned COEXIST factory in Cambridge, Massachusettes.
Some say the world will end in mire,
Some say in nice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor mire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of fate
To say that for destruction nice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Dear Brainiacs, I've been down this road. I've seen things get old. Time to get control, and start again. I shouldn't have to tell you this, but in 2016 voting is simple.
You ponder all the as usual shabby and vile candidates offered by the major parties;
you feel your gorge rise;
you feel your brain writhe as you are forced to remember, and not for the first time, just what an evil and soul destroying system the current system is;
you shiver with the very natural and enduring repulsion, and then....
You vote for the one who is the most to the right.
"But I have my principles!"
This is not a kindergarten ethics period just before milk and cookies and a long dirt nap.
We're playing with live ammunition in 2016.
Man up, grow a pair, and vote for the candidate who is most to the right.
You might hate him.
You might loathe him.
And I don't care what his name is.
You might want him to be executed by a belt sander on pay-per-view.
"But.. but... he can't win!"
Not if you sit home in your eternal dorm room muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall, reliving your visions of political purity, and tossing your brain salad with mixed nuts.
"But... but... he makes me feel bad."
Fine. We get it that you have feelings. We get you feel bad.
Take your feelings back to your dorm room and sob into your pillow until you're finished. Don't get any on you. We'll bring you a box of Kleenex or a hot towel, okay? You done? Good.Click Here to Continue
The entire Universe,
on all scales,
in all places,
and at all times,
obeys the same fundamental laws of nature.
From the weakest, lowest-frequency photon of light to the largest galaxy ever assembled, from the unstable atoms of Uranium decaying in the Earth’s core to the neutral hydrogen atoms forming for the first time 46 billion light years away, the laws that everything in this Universe obeys are the same.
Gravitation, electromagnetism, and the strong and weak nuclear forces are the same wherever and whenever you go. The particles that exist (and can exist) and their properties are the same. The rules that govern the entire system are the same. All of it, at all energies, at all times, at all places, are underwritten by the same laws of nature.
This is the most remarkable thing of all. Imagine what things would be like if this weren’t true. Imagine an existence where nature behaves randomly and unpredictably, where gravity turns on-and-off on a whim, where the Sun could simply stop burning its fuel for no apparent reason, where the atoms that form you could spontaneously cease to hold together.| 3tags
Just when you think it might just be possible that various race hustlers of the African-American persuasion could not possibly become more delusional than they are, along comes Sultan Knish: Our Racist Trees
Now Alcee Hastings, an impeached judge, and a coalition of minority groups is demanding increased “inclusiveness” at national parks. High on their list is the claim that, “African-Americans have felt unwelcome and even fearful in federal parklands during our nation’s history because of the horrors of lynching.” What do national parks have to do with lynchings? Many national parks have trees. People were hung from trees. It’s guilt by arboreal association. The origin of the bizarre racist lynching theory of national parks appears to be Carolyn Finney. author of Black Faces, White Spaces. In it she claims that “oppression and violence against black people in forests and other green spaces can translate into contemporary understandings that constrain African-American environmental understandings.” Finney cites the work of Joy DeGruy Leary who invented a Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome that she claims black people suffer from. Affected by PTSS, black people experience “fear and mistrust of forests and other green spaces.” According to Finney, the tree is a racist symbol to black people. “Black people also wanted to go out in the woods and eat apples from the trees,” Finney explains.I guess if you tried really, really hard with a room full of infinite writers on infinite word processors from Saturday Night Live when it was funny that you could, in fact, make this shit up. But then you'd be called "racist." So you might as well relax and let these "scholars" of our African-American Studies Programs do it for you.
And speaking of "scholars" here's a report on "Blackness Matters" from the National Association of Scholars
Readers who have not previously dropped in on Black Lives Matter internal discussions may be disconcerted by the racist rhetoric, the narrow-minded ideas, and pernicious premises. Some of what follows in this essay is pretty raw. Consider this a trigger warning. I am about to recount, with direct quotations, what I saw and heard at Black Lives Matter 101. When I have mentioned some of these details to others, some have responded to the effect that it is grossly impolite of me to repeat such things. I have cleaned up the language to the extent of deleting the expletives that accented much of what was said. Otherwise the quotations are accurate and as close to verbatim as I could transcribe.
Takimag: It’s hard to talk about the attack without sounding like you’re blaming the victims, but it’s impossible to deny fear of Islamophobia and fear of guns led to a lot of deaths that night.
Jesse Hughes: I saw fear fall like a blanket on the whole crowd and they fell like wheat in the wind—the way you would before a god. I was totally alert from the very beginning. The first thing I needed to do was find my girl. Fear took a backseat and “where’s my girl?” took over. I could smell gunpowder in the backstage area and I knew someone fired a round back there. I saw a guy with an FAL and when he turned to face me his eyes looked like marbles. He was stoned out of his mind, and we now know they were on Xanax and cocaine. I recognized him. I’d seen him earlier in the day and noticed him staring at us......
Takimag: I went to Paris after the attacks and was disgusted by the lack of rage. They didn’t blame Islam. In fact, many blamed the Jews. They seemed more concerned with us promoting xenophobia than laying blame on the terrorists.
Jesse Hughes: I hung out with plenty of Parisians who were fucking pissed off, but it was mostly cops and military. During the attack, one cop finally realized it wasn’t a hostage situation and yelled out, “It’s a turkey shoot” as he charged in, holding his gun. He got shot right through the hand and into the neck and kept going. He took a terrorist out, chased another one into the hallway, who then blew himself up, and did it to another guy, who blew himself up on stage. Our amplifiers were a gory mess.
Did that cop live?
Yes, I met him in triage. I hung out with him. Great guy.
You went to the hospital?
I had pieces of teeth and human bone pulled out of my face. A girl got shot right next to me by the shooter at the top of the stairs who I had met earlier. She stepped one step in front of me and her head just exploded. It blew pieces of her teeth and skull into my face.....Click Here to Continue
How many ages hence
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over
In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
- - Julius Caesar Act 3 Scene 1
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
In front of a famous background of stars and galaxies lies some of Earth's more unusual trees. Known as quiver trees, they are actually succulent aloe plants that can grow to tree-like proportions. The quiver tree name is derived from the historical usefulness of their hollowed branches as dart holders. Occurring primarily in southern Africa, the trees pictured in the above 16-exposure composite are in Quiver Tree Forest located in southern Namibia. Some of the tallest quiver trees in the park are estimated to be about 300 years old. Behind the trees is light from the small town of Keetmanshoop, Namibia. Far in the distance, arching across the background, is the majestic central band of our Milky Way Galaxy. Even further in the distance, visible on the image left, are the Large and Small Magellanic Clouds, smaller satellite galaxies of the Milky Way that are prominent in the skies of Earth's southern hemisphere. APOD: 2016 May 15 - ForestTo see the very large array.... Click Here to Continue
We'd strapped him to his bed for over a year,
Paid a fat, black woman to wear a white dress
Change his bed pan, and sit with him at night,
But when the bone white pigeon banked
Between the buildings in a pale twilight
The old man's brain liquefied.
Foam, whose tiny bubbles reflected my face,
Bloomed on his lips as he swallowed his tongue.
It said 5:47 on the red crystal clock by the wet bar,
And his breath rattled in the room like some
Tired exhaust fan from the Roaring Twenties.
His wife was out shopping at Woolworths,
Or trying to sell something back to Cartiers.
The black nurse was downstairs flirting
With Desi the tap dancing doorman.
Prince the chauffeur buffed the black Lincoln
And wondered what he do when the old lady died.
My wife was teasing our toddler in the living room.
Everyone else was trying to get home from work.
Somewhere inside his skull the skinned nerves
Kept sending signals down the spine to the heart.
And I blotted his lips in that burnt orange room
As his arms flapped like a beached fish before
The fisherman brings down the club.
I turned from the bed, pulled up the beige blinds,
And gazed out the window wondering
Where the bone white pigeon had gone.
Then I called the Doctor's number listening
To his wheezing until the call was answered.
"He's dying," I said to the man I'd never met.
"You should send an ambulance and a team
Of medics right now. He's going. Going fast."
The calm voice answered from far across town,
"He's home. He's been dead for a year, you know.
We just change the sheets and pay the nurses.
I can keep his body going as long -- as long --
As long as you want. You need to tell me.
Look outside. How heavy's the traffic on Fifth?"
I looked down on a solid ribbon of oozing steel.
"Wedged," I said. "Hardly moving at all."
"Look at his eyes," the voice said. I looked
Down into his eyes and they had no bottom.
"Who's there?" the voice asked on the phone.
"No one I know," I said. "No one at all."
I held the phone and waited, looking out over the park.
"I'll send an ambulance when you tell me," he said.
The bone white pigeon came sweeping out of the light
And settled on the sill as calm as the quiet in the room.
"Send them when you can," I said. "No rush.
They'll just get caught in traffic."
She was cruising down the Big Sur coast,
Looking for a little romance.
I was walking the edge of Highway One,
Hoping for a second chance.
She pulled that Ford to the side of the road.
I opened the door, got in.
Said, "My name's Adam, baby. What's yours?"
She said, "They call me Original Sin."
She didn't look like no high-school sweetheart.
She was no obvious beauty queen.
But she had something every man knows,
That fire that's felt not seen.
We coasted down that seaside highway
Until the evening fog rolled in,
Then checked ourselves into the Pines Motel,
Where I first knew Original Sin.
When I awoke the next morning
The room held nothing but me and a note.
"Nice knowing you, Adam, but I gotta roll.
See you around sometime," she wrote.
I wandered on down the side of the road,
Feeling just strange and tired.
Stuck out a thumb and a rig pulled over,
Said, "You want a job moving, you're hired."
We drifted along the curves below Sur
For most of that foggy morning,
Crawled over a hill and into a bunch
Of cops and cars with no warning.
Below the carved cliffs, out on the rocks
Was the smoldering wreck of a Ford.
Gulls swarmed above it, calling and calling,
Looking for a little reward.
"Another damn fool," said the trucker.
"Took the curve just a little too quick.
I seen it before and I'll see it again.
It's a killer of a road when its slick."
He edged round the cops and the gawkers,
Hit the gas, downshifted the gears.
"Pull over," I said, " and let me get out.
Far as I go is right here."
I walked back to the Sur and got me a job.
Worked hard, got some money laid in,
And opened this bar by the side of the road,
And I named it Original Sin.
And sometimes halfway to morning,
When the last of the drunks have rolled home,
I find myself down by the Pines Motel,
And I know that I'm never alone,
Know now that I'm never alone.
And that's my sad old story, pal.
Just one of a million I hear.
But this tale is mine to know and to tell.
Tell me yours and I'll buy you a beer.
Tell me yours and its worth
One cold beer.
PART II of GROWL
by Gerard Allen Van der Ginsberg
What Socialist Party of lies and slavery bashed open American skulls and sucked out their freedom, brains and imagination?
Democrat! Darwinist Solitude! NEA Filth! Pelosi Perversion! Obamunist Onanism. NPR racism! Recycling Cans to find unobtainable dollars to pay off deficit trillions! Unborn children screaming silent under the D&C! Boys sobbing for fathers! Girls for mothers! Wives for husbands! Husbands for families! Impoverished old men and weeping in the parks!
Democrat! Democrat! Nightmare of Democrat! Democrat the loveless! Gone mental Democrat! Democrat the heavy aggregation of girly-men!
Democrat the incomprehensible African-American electoral plantation system of perpetual ideological slavery! Democrat the skull & crossbones soulless Senate and Congress of corruption!
Democrat whose headquarters are Fascist overbuilding with gun slits! Democrat the vast bloating stone of Deficit! Democrat the broke government of the pauper nation!
Democrat whose mind is pure rusted machinery! Democrat whose blood is gushing tax money! Democrat whose skeleton fingers are in your wallet!
Democrat whose breast is a transsexual dynamo! Democrat whose mouth is a smoking tomb! Democrat of the atheist thumb pulling out a plum and saying what a free to be a very bad boy am I! Democrat whose only god is Dracula!
Democrat whose eyes are a thousand shattered factory windows! Democrat whose empty skyscrapers smolder in the long Detroit streets like endless Molochs! Democrat whose brains dream Utopia and choke in the fog of their flatulent dementia! Democrat whose fuming bongs and facial piercings crown the crapulous cities!
Democrat whose love is lust! Democrat whose soul is welfare and affirmative racism! Democrat whose poverty is perpetual servitude to the government salad bar, no seconds!
Democrat whose only true Doctor and Cure is Kevorkian! Democrat whose foreign policy is a cloud of glowing Iranian hydrogen! Democrat whose whore is BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH!
Democrat in whom I once sat lonely! Democrat in whom I once dreamt the New Jerusalem! Crazy in Democrat! Sucker of crock in Democrat! Lacklove and lobotomy in Democrat!
Democrat of the Dot.com I've Got Mine Now Give Us Yours Centimillionaires! Democrat of Bush Derangement Syndrome! Democrat of the dried dugs of Ariana Huffington's Code Pink Synchronized Menopause Flasher Brigade known as "The View"!
Democrat who entered my soul early! Democrat in whom I was sold down the River without Huck or a raft and put over the falls of flowing ideological crypto-socialist sewage! Drowned in recycled recycled recycled compost of Democrat! Democrat who frightened me out of my natural freedom and into hive-mind chants of GLO-BA'ALWARMING-O-BA-MA, GLO-BA'ALWARMING-O-BA-MA!
Democrat of the planet has four months to live! Democrat of lies for the common good of Democrat! Democrat of crapper rapper lies of the soul! Democrat whom I abandon!
Democrat demanding that I give all to the State! Vomit in Democrat! Avenging Angels streaming out of the sky! Death of Democrat from above! God's righteous fire on the heads of Democrat-Acorn!, Democrat-SIEU! Democrat-California!, Democrat-Detroit! Democrat-Chicago! Democrat-San Fraudcisco!
Democrat! Democrat! Robot apparatchiks! Maoist czars! Evaporated liberties! Skeleton treasuries! Dictator judges! Demonic policies! Spectral communities of Democrat delusional control! Insane Democrat media madhouses! Olbermann suckers of Democrat crock! Monstrous media leg-tingle "analysis"! Democrat of presidential prop-up! Democrat of Journ-O-list talking pointed heads! Democrat of "Too Big to Fail When Failing!"
Deception of Democrat! Voters broke their backs lifting Democrat to Heaven! Payments fees now for unborn generations mostly to be aborted, for trees, for tobacco, for tilted windmills, for tons of things so bad, very bad for you we know better pay us now for Democrat death panels later! Democrat of Constitution as toilet paper! Democrat of blowing the cities and American land to hell in a hand-basket!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! hope of the world sold down the American river!
Democrat destruction of legal immigrant Dreams! Democrat of border war beheadings of citizens! Graven Image Adorations made to tin gods! Crack-pipe Illuminations crammed down the throat of taxpayers! Cap and Trade Religions! Democrat rowing ashore the whole boatload of sensitive socialist bullshit!
Democrat of a pale horse and the name that sat on him was Democrat Death! And Democrat Hell followed with him!
Democrat Breakthroughs in suicide machines! Democrat rivers of toxic educational sludge rising to flood levels in the minds of our children! New Orleans Democrat looting! Democrat flips and crucifixions of enemies, enemies, enemies flagged at email@example.com! Bill of Rights flushed down the Democrat crapper!
Democrat heroin fueled voter fraud! Democrat Epiphanies of mandated Abortion for all not just for choosy barren Democrat! Democrat Despairs of eternal urban ghettos! Six years' animal screams and suicide of the Republic for which Democrat does not stand!
Democrat Colonized Minds! New lusts for nothing and Democrat kicks and food stamps for free! Mad Democrat cashed-out clunker generation!
Free people despair of Democrat! Free people revolt against socialist utopia con-artists! Free people sound real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell to Democrat! They jumped off the roof! to vote out Democrat forever! waving! carrying flowers! packing heat! Down to the river of freedom! into the street of Liberty, armed and dangerous, Free people voting death to Democrat nightmare now and forever in God's holy war! Free people, mine eyes have seen the Glory!
“Long before our own time, the customs of our ancestors molded admirable men, and in turn these eminent men upheld the ways and institutions of their forebears. Our age, however, inherited the Republic like some beautiful painting of bygone days, its colors already fading through great age; and not only has our time neglected to freshen the colors of the picture, but we have failed to preserve its form and outlines.
"For what remains to us, nowadays, of the ancient ways on which the commonwealth, we are told, was founded? We see them so lost in oblivion that they are not merely neglected, but quite forgot. And what am I to say of the men? For our customs have perished for want of men to stand by them, and we are now called to an account, so that we stand impeached like men accused of capital crimes, compelled to plead our own cause. Through our vices, rather than from happenstance, we retain the word “republic” long after we have lost the reality. ” – Cicero, De Re Publica
It must be destroyed without impunity for its habitual transgressions, perpetual failures and the fiends that have infected it. It’s time has come. As the symbol of the Old Right’s impotence and incompetence at halting the Left’s conquest of our nation and its heritage, National Review must be purged out of existence. It must have no voice nor provide guidance. Woodpile Report
The company put itself in a no-win situation. Even if it were possible to create a purely unbiased news feed, a lot of people would still perceive bias in it. And most people don't want an unbiased news feed, anyway -- they just want to be able to choose their own bias. So here, if you'll allow me to exercise my own jaundiced bias, is what I bet will happen. Once all the fuss dies down, the Trending Topics section, in its current universal form, will quietly be eliminated. In its place, Facebook will start offering a variety of news "channels" that will be curated, for a fee or an ad-revenue split, by media outlets like Fox News, or Politico, or Brietbart, or Huffington Post, or Vice, or Funny or Die, or what have you. Facebook members will be free to choose whichever channel or channels they want to follow -- they'll be able to choose their own bias, in other words -- and Facebook will tighten its grip over news distribution while also getting a new revenue stream. Now that's a win-win. | ROUGH TYPE
Monday’s incident at the Deupree House was the first time Heimlich, who has demonstrated the maneuver countless times since inventing it in the 1970s, used it to stop someone from choking, he said. In a telephone interview Thursday, Heimlich recounted what happened. He said Ris had been sitting next to him at his table. “When I used it, and she recovered quickly,” he said, “it made me appreciate how wonderful it has been to be able to save all those lives.”
Marijuana however, is very welcome. On the Nordgen website, the resource centre that manages the facility, you can keep track of what exactly is being stored in the global vault. According to the database, there are currently more than 20,000 seeds of two different marijuana species. They also store almost 600 types of barley used to make beer. | Messy Nessy Chic
So old, in fact, that its builders, whoever they were, started their project as the last Ice Age was coming to a close, a remote epoch during which our ancestors were supposedly still sub-literate cave dwellers.... We have no idea how large it really is, who built it, what they used it for, or why. We know it was in use for thousands of years. And it was apparently, intentionally buried around 8,000 B.C. The deliberate burial of such a complex, requiring the movement of hundreds of tons of earth is in itself as stunning an engineering achievement as the construction of the monument itself. Articles: What Lies Beneath?
Looking at all the events over the past couple of decades, the killers have an average of nine minutes of completely unopposed time to do whatever they want. Considering that over 70% of school killers end their spree by committing suicide, it’s clear that time is all they seek. There’s no escape plan. There’s not even a big hurry. Nine minutes of complete and total domination is an eternity. In fact, according to Martin’s research, it usually takes two minutes before a 911 call is placed. That alone is an eternity. Then it takes minutes for the police to arrive. Then it takes more minutes for responders to formulate and execute a response plan. The killer actually knows, not thinks or believes, but knows, that they have another four minutes after they hear the sirens coming. The result of all that is nine minutes of pure hell for the victims. - LewRockwell
The liberal West has been driving on the fumes of Christianity for about a century now and the car won’t go much further.
We think all that matters is being tolerant, kind, compassionate, forgiving and by that what we mean is that we let anybody do whatever they want however they want because personal freedom is all that matters and “who am I to judge?” The problem with this is that without the Christian faith there is soon no Christian morals. Why should a person be good if there is no God? As Dostoevsky said, “If there is no God everything is possible.” When the only virtue left is tolerance and tenderness everybody gets away with everything and there’s no one to put on the brakes. -- Patheos
It’s not just miniature horse keepers who will benefit.
Senator Chuck Schumer, a well regarded airport engineer and security expert, is demanding dogs be unleashed on the people standing in line. You’re standing in-line and a miniature horse just took a dump on your sneakers and then a pack of hounds trailed by fat guys in blue shirts starts chasing the horses through the terminal. Maybe that’s where the clowns come in. Like at the rodeo, their job will be to distract the animals.Send in the Clowns | The Z Blog
Vox Popoli: We don't need their platforms. We don't kiss the gatekeepers' asses.
We storm the gates, tear them down, and erect our own institutions using their skulls as decorations. The Brainstorm knows what's coming next. In August, the rest of you will too. There is nothing to accommodate. We will replace them by Fox Newsing their CNNs, Breitbarting their Salons, and Castalia Housing their Tors. They can keep the left-liberal third of the literate population. We'll take the rest.
However, during my travels I took note of a people who enjoyed the rind of a fruit, dipped in salt that was so bitter it was nearly impossible to keep on the tongue. There are people who bury fish heads in mud for a month and then dig it up and consume the putrid flesh. There are others who eat boiled eggs wherein the embryo has developed into a partially formed duck. So it stands to reason that there would be some within a population of respectable size, who might enjoy this tobacco. I have never eaten the flesh of rotted fish, but I have tasted "balut", the aforementioned egg of the duck; it did not taste like chicken, nor did it remind me in any way of peking duck, and I remember I required a significant amount of the local beer in order to distract my palate in hopes of avoiding an unpleasant reaction. All this is to say that, while I cannot decide which experience I would choose should it ever be necessary to revisit one of the undesirable experiences; suffice to say that I would prefer not to. again, experience either of the two. Sutliff Tobacco Company - Mixture No.79 - Tobacco Reviews
Shall we be required to show up the day before our flight? Yes, this is a shakedown to restore recent job cuts. It's also the sheerest kind of incompetence , TSA's expertise aside from their daily theatre. Ever gone through a third world airport? You will, without ever leaving the country. Next. Woodpile Report