We campaigned for better hot dogs, and lost.
— Michael Grant Smith (@MGSatMGScom) June 11, 2013
Tomorrow, Commander Chris Hadfield bids farewell to the International Space Station, meaning we won’t get our usual dose of his tweets and videos sent from space. But he’s signing off with a little David Bowie.
Give me. Your dirty love.
That is all. I love y’all all up.
To be clear, where I work should no longer be described as a “home”, but more a “Bunker of dark Elven magic.” Eleven years have allowed me to transform this garden apartment into the perfect symbiotic workspace, drawing from the best aspects of the Batcave (Burton-era), Tony Stark’s workshop, Cerebro, and the Batcave (Nolan-era).
each and every morning.
I did not paint the skeleton, by the way. Nor the lobster.
Also, ravens are way cool. I never met a corvid I didn’t like.
They’re clever. And they play in the snow.
Plus, The Ravens was the name The Kinks had before they were The Kinks.
Even the humble dung beetle, its life spent barely an inch above the ground, pushing balls of waste, steers by starlight.
“Dung steered by the stars,” as my longtime friend Steve said.
Or, as Oscar Wilde wrote in “Lady WIndermere’s Fan”:
DUMBY. I don’t think we are bad. I think we are all good, except Tuppy.
LORD DARLINGTON. No, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
With David Bowie’s “Star Man”. Et cetera. 2007.
“Yeah! Me, too!”
Please do me this one favor and watch all of this and you’ll be glad that you did.
Monsters! I’m David Bowie!
The strong and gusty winds may cause driving difficulties for high profile and lightweight vehicles.
Lightweight objects will also likely be blown around and small branches may break.
Use extra caution if you are traveling or headed outdoors this Saturday evening.
— Heather McCormack (@HuisceBeatha) November 15, 2012
This is so cool I can’t hardly stand it.
I’ve been way way down lately, so when India’s and Lucy’s friend Heather commenced live-tweeting about Elmore Leonard from the National Book Awards, I got all excited. She and I got going back and forth, and I told her about my crush on Leonard. And we got talking about one of Leonard’s minor gifts — how he never strikes a false note when he writes about music. Anyway . . .
She said she’d try and get me a photo. And she did.
done tumped over in plain view on Main Street with the Baby J clutching at her tit.
Say, here’s an idea. What say we establish a bizarro clusterflock for hackers, extremists, and miscellaneous goofbuckets? SHOUTING! And the SWORD!
We could even make it user-friendly by modeling it on bilingual sites. You know, sites that offer you the GERMAN or the ENGLISH version.
Visitors to the bizarro clusterflock could opt, say, for the MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY-KRAZEE-CHRISTIAN version or the MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY-KRAZEE-MUSLIM version.
There are infinite variations.
All of us wishing y’all many more years of love and happiness.
A long-distance friend asked me to elucidate the term “hepcat”. I referred my friend to Mr. Calloway.
Morning weather chums Jude here. A cloudy start, grey, damp & murky too for many parts, esp the east. Staying murky along east coast. TBC
— BBC Scotland Weather (@BBCScotWeather) July 3, 2012
BBC Scotland Weather. It’s a thing.
(Thanks to Wil Freeborn.)
and you’re hurting my mind and I wish the hell you would stop. And not just for my sake.
Please take a breath and reconsider posting that captioned image du jour. Do you know the one I mean? Its import is by and large political; oftimes it will feature a stock photo of a politician (or two) emblazoned with a snappy quip, ill-positioned and rendered in an ugly font. You must know what I have in mind.
I see such images mainly on Facebook, where they’re hard to avoid without hiding all of your posts.
And I wonder: What is the point?
These clumsy graphics you share and re-share are not great nor even good political art. They are not effective pieces of propaganda. They simply confirm sentiments held by the bulk of your contacts.
And they look like they been slapped together by somebody whomping an ugly stick.
So: For my sake and for your sake and for the sake of all that is true and beautiful, will you please pause and consider whether you really want to share that lame-ass piece of dreck?
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
They were what you might call a guild of master printers.
On September 27, 1900, they pondered their future and they et. They started off with Blue Points, a splash of sherry, something called Essence of White Sage Hen, olives, salted almonds, and celery. Then turbans of black bass, sliced cucumbers, and potatoes marquises. And/or diamondback terrapin (in case). And/or lamp chops with asparagus tips. (And Parisian potatoes!) Washed down with various 1884 Sauternes.
There was an interval of sherbet crème de menthe (to cleanse the palate?) and cigarettes, followed by roast stuffed quail (imperiale) with corn cake and guava jelly. Plus lettuce and tomato, filled with celery and mayonnaise. A gulp or so of Moët & Chandon.
Ice cream (en surprise) and assorted cakes for afters. A cheese course of Roquefort cheese and “saline wafers.” And a wee nip of Chartreuse. Topped off by café noir and cigars.
(From the wonderful NYPL Menu Collection.)
Garbage collectors of Hamburg made giant rolling pinhole cameras by drilling tiny holes into dumpsters and hanging large sheets of photo paper inside. You can see some of their Hamburg Trashcam photos on the project’s Flickr photostream.
This must be The Place.@ The Place instagr.am/p/LHKs1ukKYc/
— Mark Matienzo (@anarchivist) May 27, 2012
So sorry, ring-tailed feral cat, that I scared you out of your place in the dumpster in the shed. Please come back.
— Sheila Ryan (@Cirinda) May 27, 2012
Toronto photographer and archivist Patrick Cummins has documented his city’s vernacular architecture by photographing the same addresses over the span of at least three decades.
And an Atlantic interview with Patrick Cummins.
(Thanks to clusterflock friend, Toronto photographer Jan Normandale.)
@deronbauman Fort Spunky.
— Sheila Ryan (@Cirinda) May 5, 2012
@deronbauman Fort Spanky. Fort Stinky. Fort Punky. Fort Skanky. Fort Rinky-Dink. Fort Honky. Fort Monkey Butt. Fort Yankee. Fort Wonky.
— Sheila Ryan (@Cirinda) May 5, 2012
@deronbauman Fort Sphincter. Fort Laughter. Fort Spinster. Fort Munster. Fort Muenster. Fort Mustard. Fort Bustard. Fort Custard.
— Sheila Ryan (@Cirinda) May 5, 2012
Montreal artist Shelley Miller puts up these pieces of sugar street art that are incredibly detailed. From afar, it resembles the blue and white finesse of Delft ceramic ware, but in reality all of these outdoor murals are made entirely out of frosting and sugar.
After four months in Argentina and places proximate, my friend Charlie is back in the Driftless Region.
He will be tending his garden and selling his produce again this year — and he ordered turkey craw beans especially for me!
“I like to live on the edge so I plant mint where you’re not supposed to.”
I could wait till the weekend to post this, but why?
Performed live by the Wordless Music Orchestra on Jan. 16, 2008, at the Church of St. Paul the Apostle in New York City.
Originally written in 1969, Gavin Bryars’ first major composition, The Sinking of the Titanic, still sounds just as vital, fresh, and forward-thinking now as it did then. In a concert from the Wordless Music Series, recorded by WNYC, the piece was performed live by the Wordless Music Orchestra on Jan. 16, 2008, at the Church of St. Paul the Apostle in New York City. Conductor Brad Lubman led the ensemble.