my current desktop
headline of the day
Oklahoma senator wants ban on human fetuses in food
All that’s left here are the remnants of what was
Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady, the directors of the documentary Jesus Camp, produced a short video at The New York Times about the dismantling of Detroit.
One freezing evening we happened upon the young men in this film, who were illegally dismantling a former Cadillac repair shop. They worked recklessly to tear down the steel beams and copper fasteners. They were in a hurry to make it to the scrap yard before it closed at 10 p.m., sell their spoils and head to the bar.
Surprisingly, these guys, who all lacked high school diplomas, seemed to have a better understanding of their place in the global food chain than many educated American 20-somethings. The young men regularly checked the fluctuating price of metals before they determined their next scrap hunt, and they had a clear view of where these resources were going and why.
my current desktop
my current desktop
my current desktop
my current desktop
my current desktop
Sign of the Times (and the Place)
Half a dozen Russian speakers, all under thirty, packed up their car after a weekend rental of one of my neighbor’s cottages here in the Driftless Regional Resort Region. A few may have glanced at me as I scrabbled in the dirt, digging up buried money and muttering, “I am uncovering my wealth.”
from the comments
My Aunt Audrey was a telephone operator in the sticks of Tennessee. We would visit relatives and I would get on the phone to act out, forgetting about Aunt Audrey or just being defiant. Until I heard a distinctive voice that I was sure was her say, “No playing on the telephone, Miss.”
Mr. C. said that even earlier, all calls had to go through the operator. So if you were trying to reach them, the operator might say things like, “You won’t be able to talk to them until Tuesday. They’ve gone to the river to see Nam Becky,” or some such.
I still am convinced telephone operators know everything.
Top Searches
encrypted_search_terms, demi moore bush, dogue de bordeaux, dog de bordeaux, christmas pussy
headline of the day, II
Portland police arrest man after alleged ‘Star Wars’ light saber assault at Toys’R'Us
(this happened about half a mile from my house)
my current desktop
spam name
Sunny Carolina.
text my mom sent
check out the bear with boobs behind jesus.
my current desktop
dear clusterflock
Where are you?
headline of the day
Giant mound of tires in SC visible from space
my current desktop
my current desktop
from the spam
Aaron Rzadczynski is renting in Gilbert while whitepages mylife is based out of Knoxville.
my current desktop
scenes for a film from Sheila’s email
1.
After our first (failed) graffiti attempt on Wednesday, Charlie and I went to a little place called Council Hill Station for coffee. A storm was in full force, and lightning hit something very near by. The owner of the place wondered if he should go over to his house and “shut off the Internet.”
2.
Charlie noted that he seemed easily distracted, even by his own thoughts.
The arrival of a big truck passing through “town” caused him to bolt out the door in the middle of a conversation about Jackson Hole.
3.
Before the scene in which Charlie is standing at the counter with money out and the owner is laboriously pointing out locations of nearby towns on a map and briefly fretting that the town of Leadmine has been omitted (“that’s not good”) when he gets a phone call and tells the caller that his partner/wife is not around, then wanders off to the kitchen (or somewhere). We can hear the occasional sound of his side of the conversation. And then the sound of water running.
Our perception of time grew very strange indeed.
4.
Also, the recorded fiddle music that sounded as though it would repeat for all eternity.
And the bad cell phone connections. Charlie and I both got calls, and we were shouting and repeating till the connections dropped.
Charlie to his father: “You can eat fruit . . . ? He said you can eat fruit? You . . . can . . . eat fruit?”
my current desktop
Redington
“And this is where it starts.”
Living in the county long enough, you begin to feel that you know every road, every creek, and even every cow; but there are still places hiding out there, waiting, scattered amid the leaves, in the lonely hollows.
But where are we? Where have we gone?
Somewhere Beyond the Corn.
Read more
