"And the state of our nation is... greatness or…
At Rushmore: "Only America... No other place"
The Street by H. P. Lovecraft
America's Anchorman Interviews President Trump
The Wedding Vows
The Little Beetle That Could: AD Readers Remember…
The Patriot by the ParkSunday with Trump: Sheryl Atkinson interviews the…“The weight of this sad time we must obey. / Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.” — Lear
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“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”
A Wicker Basket
Comes the time when it’s later
and onto your table the headwaiter
puts the bill, and very soon after
rings out the sound of lively laughter—
Picking up change, hands like a walrus,
and a face like a barndoor’s,
and a head without any apparent size,
nothing but two eyes—
So that’s you, man,
or me. I make it as I can,
I pick up, I go
faster than they know—
Out the door, the street like a night,
any night, and no one in sight,
but then, well, there she is,
old friend Liz—
And she opens the door of her cadillac,
I step in back,
and we’re gone.
She turns me on—
There are very huge stars, man, in the sky,
and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie,
with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it,
and I eat it—
Slowly. And while certainly
they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket
of these cats not making it, I make it
in my wicker basket.
— BY ROBERT CREELEY
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Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Real World Address for Donations, Mash Notes and Hate Mail
Black Burgers Matter
Just found out about this amazing new restaurant called “Amplifying Black Voices” where you can buy non-racist hamburgers and anti-fascist milkshakes. pic.twitter.com/0JA1mELnYg
— Titania McGrath (@TitaniaMcGrath) July 1, 2020
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Untold heroics by unnamed men, now buried and forgotten by all except the ghosts they share the battlefields with; friend and enemy alike now bound by the contest that killed them. None of them knew what the next instant would bring, but all of them knew the desperate struggle and the fear and the sweat and the stink and the blood in the dark sand and the flames in the caves. Thousands of men thrown up against a big rock where thousands of other men had prepared well for exactly that. The few men in the film and in the photos became known but only because of their accidental fame and to them we owe a debt: They were the cast that made the battle famous and gave at least some of the dead an animated memorial of sorts.
Heroics by men from all over the free world have kept this planet from the death of all forms of socialism but I’m pretty damned sure that the current crop of tattooed, drugged, tranny minded, LBGTQ embracing, free ranging and by-God useless and pussified, cell phone addicted men who comprise the vast majority of service aged men in this country wouldn’t get through the first week of Boot Camp at a Mediterranean spa and they certainly wouldn’t last 5 seconds with a DI crawling up their butts. They’re so pitiful that I wouldn’t even want to watch them endure Boot in any branch of the service.
Our military is filled with great men and women but the only thing that keeps the country safe is its proliferation of weapons that guarantee pure hell on earth, for everyone, in a conflict. Internally, we’re fucked.
one of those men was a navy medical corpsman/pharmacist’s mate. his son, unaware of the particulars of his father’s wartime experience, as he never talked of it, investigated it after his death, his interest driven by finding his father’s awarded navy cross among his effects.
wrote a book about it, and his father, maybe 35 years ago (?)