Cratering

A half-stack doesn't fit in the trunk.

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Cratering

a half-stack doesn't fit in the trunk

toseethis:

Chase Holfelder - Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

In a minor key, this song has an unexpected pathos

Same guy who did that haunting minor version of the national anthem a while ago.

This is awesome, too.

"School is out for many Ferguson students, but teachers are still holding classes at local public libraries. On Tuesday, teachers stood outside of Ferguson Public Library holding signs that said “here to teach” and “students welcome.” Inside the library, teachers helped students with reading, science, art and math. “We’re trying to provide a positive and productive place for students,” said Ferguson-Florissant art teacher Carrie Pace to local outlet the Riverfront Times. “A place for them to come and do something educational and meet up with other students.” One 16-year-old student, Derrick Washington, came to the library to help tutor students younger than him, like his brother. He spoke with Huffington Post reporter Ryan J. Reilly about the experience. “While they’re not in school, I can help them get ready for school,” said Washington, who is a high school student in the Ferguson-Florissant district. “Keep them in line … keep them from getting in trouble.”"



-

These Are Some Of The Inspiring Things Ferguson Teachers Are Doing While School Is Postponed (via apsies)

I understand that reblogging isn’t considered activism, but I don’t give a shit.

I reblog to share information. I reblog to spread good news, relevant news, and hopefully some of what I share makes a difference.

This story touched my heart.

(via pocketcuntents)

"Look for the helpers."



fancycwabs:

themorningnews:


The Pizza Belt is defined as “the area of the United States where the chance of obtaining an adequate-to-good slice of pizza from a randomly chosen pizzeria is greater than 50 percent.”

The Pizza Belt: the Most Important Pizza Theory You’ll Read

Based on this map, you’re more likely to find decent pizza in Long Island Sound than in, say, Oklahoma City. Learn how maps work, Gawker.

I think the original author chose that shape due to its uncanny resemblance to his own pud: short, pudgy, red from the constant beating, and with a permanent case of jerker’s lean.
As we sit here witnessing the possibly literal end of civilization, I pause for a moment to wonder if there is anything I care less about than the dismally uninformed food opinions of some Park Slope-hipster-dilettante-asshole who’s never been west of the Hudson River, much less the the inherent gall of pronouncing said opinions as “official.”
No. No, there is not.
Stick your little red chode back into the sheep that birthed you, Gawker food critic.

fancycwabs:

themorningnews:

The Pizza Belt is defined as “the area of the United States where the chance of obtaining an adequate-to-good slice of pizza from a randomly chosen pizzeria is greater than 50 percent.”

The Pizza Belt: the Most Important Pizza Theory You’ll Read

Based on this map, you’re more likely to find decent pizza in Long Island Sound than in, say, Oklahoma City. Learn how maps work, Gawker.

I think the original author chose that shape due to its uncanny resemblance to his own pud: short, pudgy, red from the constant beating, and with a permanent case of jerker’s lean.

As we sit here witnessing the possibly literal end of civilization, I pause for a moment to wonder if there is anything I care less about than the dismally uninformed food opinions of some Park Slope-hipster-dilettante-asshole who’s never been west of the Hudson River, much less the the inherent gall of pronouncing said opinions as “official.”

No. No, there is not.

Stick your little red chode back into the sheep that birthed you, Gawker food critic.

Happy 69th birthday today to the great Ian Gillan. I'm listening to Space Truckin' and Gethsemane on repeat in his honor.

\m/

Just firing up Machine Head as we speak.

TT

The random cornstalk growing in the middle of a soybean field—sickly, yellow, stunted, unwanted, the result of a lost seed, clearly unaware that corn is So Last Year? 

Don’t feel too bad, cornstalk. Soon, someone’s gonna harvest all those beans, too.

9 days, 19 hours since Mike Brown was killed.

hasdarrenwilsonbeenarrestedyet:

Darren Wilson is still on paid administrative leave. Whereabouts unknown.

I hope TJ used an unbounded numeric type.

People who want to get and share real-time information go to where there’s real-time information, not bullshit “here’s what we want you to see” algorithms.
No one wants to fight with their racist cousin on Facebook. They’d rather poop out their frustration on twitter (like I did). On tumblr, some people just don’t have more than 140 character rants (that’s me again) and feel unable to express themselves

I’m not sure which I like less: the idea that Facebook is censoring us, or that we are self-censoring. And both are probably true. Ugh.

Fascinating (to me, anyway)

My twitter feed: about 90% Ferguson-related.

Tumblr: about 50/50 at the moment.

Facebook: near zero.

Purple clover, Queen Anne’s LaceCrimson hair across your faceYou could make me cry if you don’t know
— Bob Dylan, “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go”
Queen Anne’s Lace means August. It means vacation. It means road trips. And, just beyond, it means another summer is drawing to a close, and all the melancholy that implies.
I grew up in the closely-mown suburbs and completely paved parts of the southwest side of Chicago, far from the rural spaces where Queen Anne’s Lace flourishes. My childhood commutes consisted mostly of the one-block walk to school or the ten-minute backseat ride to my grandparents’ house, and no part of either trip was in any way undeveloped enough to see this plant. When I did catch a glimpse of those improbably wide, shaving brush flowers on their spindly, underpowered stalks, it was only at one time: when we got on the road for our annual summer trip around the southern tip of the lake to Union Pier, Michigan.
I was the kind of kid—still am—who can be entertained for hours on road trips simply by looking out the window. Part of it was simple necessity, since staring at a book or any point interior to the car would lead to motion sickness. But even if not for that, I’d have preferred the rural views. So much space! I could scarcely imagine what it would be like to live in a place where there was so much distance between me and my neighbors.
And such different flora. I don’t regret anything about my childhood, and I don’t mean to paint a picture of a crowded, soulless suburb carpeted in Kentucky bluegrass and ennui. But I’d also be lying if I told you it was full of interesting greenery. It was fully sodded, dotted with geometrically arranged perennials and annuals, the same ones that I can buy today at Home Depot and arrange in my own yard in the same way I was taught osmotically.
The anticipation of our Michigan vacation built all year. I can remember talking about plans at Christmas gatherings. It built up steadily to the day of departure as we shopped for swimsuits, floatie toys, etc. But it was somewhere along I-94 in Indiana, where the suburbs had finally given way to the farms, that it became Real. We are almost there! How many more minutes, Mom? And, purely coincidentally except maybe not, it was right about at that point that the highway’s untended, unmowed right-of-way gave itself over to the riot of millions of wild carrots—the Queen’s Lace. Exit 6, where we finally got off the Interstate just blocks from our destination, always had a particularly epic stand of them growing at the top of the ramp. (Still does.) That was when I knew. In moments, the car would be rumbling up the long, gravel driveway, past the wild grapes on the long fence.
We’d rent small, adjacent cottages at a place called Seeburger’s (what a fantastic name) for a two-week block, usually in early-to-mid-August. My grandparents and aunts and uncles would meet us there. All the usual schedules, bedtimes, food rules, and just about any other strictures of normal life were relaxed or abandoned entirely, and for two weeks it was primarily about maximizing beach time and letting the rest work itself out. Grandma would head back up to the cottage and bring lunch back to us. We’d head into “town” for ice cream just about every night. We’d play games or take day trips if it rained. We’d fall asleep on the couches, watching the grownups play cards and drink something called “high balls.” Even after two full weeks, my sister and I didn’t want it to end, though I’ll admit the grownups may have felt a little differently. After getting home, school would be just around the corner. Often the very next Monday.
It may be a trick of failing memory, but I really do seem to recall that on the way back home, these wildflowers had decreased in number from just two weeks prior on the way out. They’d started to brown, thin, and fall. Can that have really happened in those two weeks? I’m no botanist, but I think so. They appear in the spring and last until late fall, but they peak, and nature’s peaks fade—often rapidly.
I still look for the Lace when I leave town by car. The other day, I saw plenty on my way up to where I am today, in Wisconsin, and the sight of it still brings me back, a little, to that feeling of the excitement of getting away. Vacations are a lot trickier now as I have to manage more souls in the same way that my parents did for me. It’s inherently a little stressful, but it becomes more manageable if we adopt the previous generation’s practice of letting the schedules go. One week from today, the schedules get oppressive again. Another summer wraps up. 

Purple clover, Queen Anne’s Lace
Crimson hair across your face
You could make me cry if you don’t know

— Bob Dylan, “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go”

Queen Anne’s Lace means August. It means vacation. It means road trips. And, just beyond, it means another summer is drawing to a close, and all the melancholy that implies.

I grew up in the closely-mown suburbs and completely paved parts of the southwest side of Chicago, far from the rural spaces where Queen Anne’s Lace flourishes. My childhood commutes consisted mostly of the one-block walk to school or the ten-minute backseat ride to my grandparents’ house, and no part of either trip was in any way undeveloped enough to see this plant. When I did catch a glimpse of those improbably wide, shaving brush flowers on their spindly, underpowered stalks, it was only at one time: when we got on the road for our annual summer trip around the southern tip of the lake to Union Pier, Michigan.

I was the kind of kid—still am—who can be entertained for hours on road trips simply by looking out the window. Part of it was simple necessity, since staring at a book or any point interior to the car would lead to motion sickness. But even if not for that, I’d have preferred the rural views. So much space! I could scarcely imagine what it would be like to live in a place where there was so much distance between me and my neighbors.

And such different flora. I don’t regret anything about my childhood, and I don’t mean to paint a picture of a crowded, soulless suburb carpeted in Kentucky bluegrass and ennui. But I’d also be lying if I told you it was full of interesting greenery. It was fully sodded, dotted with geometrically arranged perennials and annuals, the same ones that I can buy today at Home Depot and arrange in my own yard in the same way I was taught osmotically.

The anticipation of our Michigan vacation built all year. I can remember talking about plans at Christmas gatherings. It built up steadily to the day of departure as we shopped for swimsuits, floatie toys, etc. But it was somewhere along I-94 in Indiana, where the suburbs had finally given way to the farms, that it became Real. We are almost there! How many more minutes, Mom? And, purely coincidentally except maybe not, it was right about at that point that the highway’s untended, unmowed right-of-way gave itself over to the riot of millions of wild carrots—the Queen’s Lace. Exit 6, where we finally got off the Interstate just blocks from our destination, always had a particularly epic stand of them growing at the top of the ramp. (Still does.) That was when I knew. In moments, the car would be rumbling up the long, gravel driveway, past the wild grapes on the long fence.

We’d rent small, adjacent cottages at a place called Seeburger’s (what a fantastic name) for a two-week block, usually in early-to-mid-August. My grandparents and aunts and uncles would meet us there. All the usual schedules, bedtimes, food rules, and just about any other strictures of normal life were relaxed or abandoned entirely, and for two weeks it was primarily about maximizing beach time and letting the rest work itself out. Grandma would head back up to the cottage and bring lunch back to us. We’d head into “town” for ice cream just about every night. We’d play games or take day trips if it rained. We’d fall asleep on the couches, watching the grownups play cards and drink something called “high balls.” Even after two full weeks, my sister and I didn’t want it to end, though I’ll admit the grownups may have felt a little differently. After getting home, school would be just around the corner. Often the very next Monday.

It may be a trick of failing memory, but I really do seem to recall that on the way back home, these wildflowers had decreased in number from just two weeks prior on the way out. They’d started to brown, thin, and fall. Can that have really happened in those two weeks? I’m no botanist, but I think so. They appear in the spring and last until late fall, but they peak, and nature’s peaks fade—often rapidly.

I still look for the Lace when I leave town by car. The other day, I saw plenty on my way up to where I am today, in Wisconsin, and the sight of it still brings me back, a little, to that feeling of the excitement of getting away. Vacations are a lot trickier now as I have to manage more souls in the same way that my parents did for me. It’s inherently a little stressful, but it becomes more manageable if we adopt the previous generation’s practice of letting the schedules go. One week from today, the schedules get oppressive again. Another summer wraps up. 

  1. The Ferguson thing—which is ongoing, by the way, as we now fully enter the victim-blaming phase—is among the most depressing things I can ever recall happening in this country. The worst part is that I expect this is the New Normal. 
  2. It did have the effect of reminding me that all my problems are relatively stupid. There is no chance whatsoever that a bunch of microdicked cops in tactical gear and tanks (tanks!) are going to treat me like an enemy combatant, or my neighborhood like Hamburger Hill.
  3. Normally, we go to the other side of the lake for a week around this time every summer. It’s a good thing we didn’t this year—the lake is at near-record low temperatures. Not a lot to do there if the beach is unusable. If this weather pattern is another New Normal, I may have to accelerate my plan to get southwest. (Please don’t take this opportunity to tell me how much I suck for liking hot weather.)
  4. If every conversation you have is an argument, consider that the problem might not be that literally everyone else in the world is an asshole.
  5. My body’s bizarre response to exercise continues apace. By induction, the end result of this will be a perfectly spherical torso of 100% fat, four limbs the diameter of matchsticks, and the same big, thick head on top. Great look. I’ll post a whole set of #SST pics.

Al Green - How Can You Mend A Broken Heart?
(680 plays)

batteredshoes:

Al Green | How Can You Mend A Broken Heart?

I had no idea Al Green covered this. Beautiful.

Concrete Blonde - God Is A Bullet
(158 plays)

God Is A Bullet // Concrete Blonde

Have mercy on us, everyone

allisonunsupervised:

Scenes from Ferguson passed along by a niece who graduated from the Ferguson-Florissant school district high school where her father teaches, as did three of her brothers, so far.  

If you watch or reblog one more thing about the situation in Ferguson, Missouri, let it be this. Please. 

I Heard It Through The Grapevine (isolated vocal) // Marvin Gaye

Never mind the silly 70s lip sync video. Just listen to one of the greatest voices in the history of popular music. Here’s a song I thought I was tired of hearing but this is like a sunlight and oxygen cocktail. It made me feel a little better, maybe it will you, too.