The good soldier of cinema. I kept calling him that and he kept calling me that. He saw in me a good soldier in cinema. I said you are even more. He was a wounded soldier. He was ill and struggled and was still plowing on relentlessly. And that was completely and utterly admirable and I love him for that.
Chiditarod is sort of like if you had Halloween in March for grown ups who love fast-moving parades and races and all the joy it takes you to not feel cold with the swirls of snow at your feet. It has become an art form of who can create the most elaborate or inventive float just as much as who can finish first with checkpoints all over local businesses in the Chicago neighborhood of Ukrainian Village. Sometimes, it feels like Chicago has lost so many great musicians, artists, writers to cities like NYC but whenever Chiditarod comes around, it reminds us Chicagoans why it’s great to be home. As the Chiditarod website points out, the date coincides with the Alaskan Iditarod dog sled race but I’ve always preferred shopping carts to sleds and costume lovers to dogs, anyway. And, as if you needed any more of a reason to support adults donning costumes and running through the wind and the cold, proceeds also greatly benefit The Greater Chicago Food Depository.
Favorite floats from this year’s race include “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea,” “The Beatles,” “DeadMau5,” “Ghostbusters,” “Mr. Potato Head,” “Super Mario Bros.,” “Lucky Charms,” “Unicorns,” “Draculas,” and “Happy Birthday!”
Full set of (large-sized) photographs from Chiditarod 2013 can be viewed on Flickr here.
While I’m logged in here, I’d like to blatantly promote a project I worked on recently that I think is cool:
It’s a job-interview guide for military veterans and their partners, and though I didn’t read every word while I was working on it (I designed and coded the e-books and designed and typeset the print edition (not the covers)), I got the impression that it’s practical and well thought-out.
And it’s free to download in lots of formats (there are versions with video and versions without), or to view on the Web. Free, FREE, FREE!
So if you are a veteran (thank you!), please have a look; if you know some, pass it along.
And if you see any typos or formatting errors, drop me a note. I can fix those!
Sign up early, if you want a spot; these pants fill up fast!
The Wayfinder Experience in Your Pants
Unlocking the Life Force in Your Pants
The Marks of Our Existence in Your Pants
Say “No” to Stress in Your Pants
Storming Heaven in Your Pants
Compose Yourself in Your Pants
Trees & Ecosystems in Your Pants
Frequencies of Healing in Your Pants
Enter Through the Image in Your Pants
Dreamgates in Your Pants
Leap of Perception in Your Pants
Timeless Loving in Your Pants
each and every morning.
I did not paint the skeleton, by the way. Nor the lobster.
Bain News Service, publisher. Mrs. Herschel Parker. From the Bain Collection, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.
Mr. Parker (Herschel Clifford Parker) was a Columbia physics professor and a founding member of the Explorers Club. In the spring of 1911 he married Evelyn Naegele. They honeymooned in Alaska.
Mrs. Herschel Parker last saw Professor Parker in 1919. In 1925 she petitioned a Brooklyn court to grant a divorce, citing abandonment and failure to support.
According to Mrs. Herschel Parker, the professor had said, “I am tired of looking after a wife and family. A man with my genius owes himself to mankind in general and cannot be tied down by family routine.”
I bought a rubber chicken purse, but it turned out to be vinyl. It stinks.
Where’s my rubber chicken?
It’s outside tonight. Off-gassing.
“I love the way it makes me feel,” said Trina. “It gives me a sense of euphoria.”
The couple admits they perform their caffeinated enema at least four times a day. Once, Trina said she did “nine or 10″ in a 24-hour period.
(via ABC News)
Everyone needs a manifesto.
In a perfect world, cheese would have a mild laxative effect.
I became tired of losing the TV remote. It’s now up my butt. Watch me change channels.
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.
A Dallas man was arrested early Wednesday after he and a woman came to blows over a soda, police said.
By the end of the argument, a glass jar, a tire iron, a pillow and a box of chicken were all used as weapons, according to a police report.
Diamond Lydia, 18, is being held on a charge of aggravated assault.
It’s not brand new, but if you read it you will love this excellent piece written by ‘flocker Sarah Pavis:
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!
After I lost a lengthy Facebook post re: gun control, mental health services, blah blah woof woof, I retreated. Have a cuppa tea and regroup. As a friend advised, “A cup of tea fixes everything.”
SC on December 7th, 2012:
Fifth grade field trip to visit Senator Strom Thurmond. I’m wearing a light brown corduroy suit (in May, in South Carolina), a white shirt, and a green (don’t know why) tie. My class gathers in Thurmond’s office. Thurmond shows up (with orange hair, even way back then) and socializes with the girls, and only the girls, in the class. Several young women sit in Thurmond’s lap while socializing. Our teacher asks the class to gather around Thurmond’s desk for a group photo. Photos are taken. Then, there’s a warm sensation around my tie and some sort of salty liquid in my mouth. My friend Jonathan looks at me and screams “Bathroom! Bloody nose!” then he puts his hand on my face, possibly to help, but he ends up making a bloody handprint on my shirt. I run to the bathroom and bleed for a while in a sink while security guys mill about like personal bathroom attendants. I take my shirt off, button my corduroy coat to the top, turn the collar up, and spend the rest of the field trip testing various theories of invisibility.
We had no idea our hosts were evangelical Christians with a sinister agenda. But when we arrived at their compound, the look of it was bad enough to give us pause. Each detached “unit” was brand-new, but they were all made to look like crackers’ shacks. I made a sneering remark alluding to “Tobacco Road”.
It wasn’t long before they invited us to leave. At the farewell dinner, I annoyed our hosts by singing a parodic hymn of praise and thanksgiving, “Swirling in the Service of the Lord.” Then we helped ourselves to macaroons and bagels “for the road”.
Before I set off walking for the car, I went down to the basement and scooped up a boxload of drugs, also “for the road”. Waiting for the freight elevator, I spied a pair of shoes in a bin of items collected for a fundraising sale. I nicked them. “Like walking on peas,” they were.
At some point during the night, I had to wear a badge indicating that I was a Woman Who’d Had One or More Abortions. But that was a different story, I think.
I’m still thankful for all you guys.
— 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.
You know some people talk about being abducted by aliens. I won’t say I have been, but I’ll tell you this much. When I was little, I dreamed I was falling asleep and just as I was nodding off, I felt a weight settle on the bed at my feet. I looked down to see a cat-eyed, long-limbed creature crawling up my legs toward my face. I screamed out, Daddy came. We didn’t have a cat at the time.
In a motel in a northern suburb of Denver, working retail for a couple of weeks a few years ago, I was awakened by something yanking me completely out of the bed by the big toe. I awoke drenched in sweat and in the same position I fell asleep.
Lately when napping, I’ve felt the bed settle, as if a weight lands near my feet, as if a cat has jumped on the bed. I look to find nothing there.
In need of cheap lodging for perhaps 4-6 weeks. Have access to same for period required. Physical conditions rough but livable.
Note: Premises likely haunted.
Question: Is this wise?
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.
Will it make a sound?
June 28 and 29 mark the anniversary of the Stonewall riot, a 1969 event many recognize as central to the gay rights movement of the 1970s and beyond. Editors researching The Advocate archives for the magazine’s forty-fifth anniversary issue came across a piece that appeared in September 1969, reprinted from a summer newsletter of the New York Mattachine Society.
Plainclothes officers entered the [Stonewall Inn] at about 2 a.m., armed with a warrant, and closed the place on grounds of illegal selling of alcohol. Employees were arrested and the customers told to leave. The patrons gathered on the street outside and were joined by other Village residents and visitors to the area.
The police behaved, as is usually the case when they deal with homosexuals, with bad grace, and were reproached by “straight” onlookers. Pennies were thrown at the cops by the crowd, then beer cans, rocks, and even parking meters. The cops retreated inside the bar, which was set afire by the crowd.
Lord Ganesh is in a watermelon patch. He don’t need no Walmart.