Disney is all frayed cultural glories.
Days of remembrance, such as this anniversary of the Challenger disaster, remind us that along with the memories and thoughts of what we felt comes a responsibility to teach the past and the lessons from it. Not just for recording the events, but in explaining to those who didn’t live through them what it was like.
Death is an alarm clock: love them NOW, before it’s too late. And maybe we do, maybe we go hug our significant other, tell our children we love them, vow to be more appreciative of the people in our lives. For a little while.
So my co-workers took me to Dragon Man’s.
How a couple of dumb tweets made it happen.
How Berkeley – and Crisco – informed me that I was done with the technology industry.
While I ponder how to extricate myself from the gooey mire of QAnon Twitterland, please learn a lesson from my folly: You cannot troll those who have attached themselves to perhaps the biggest troll of all time.
I did it like this,
I did it like that.
I did it with a soggy three-dollar Santa hat.
“Cross-section of America” is a phrase that gets overused. In the lines snaking their way through the Capitol and around a rotunda occupied by the 41st president lying in state, it was made manifest. A living, breathing example of E Pluribus Unum, queued up in neat rows waiting to pass by the honored George HW Bush.
Your lack of service does not make you a lesser citizen or unworthy of respect. Your success is not tainted by what you think is a catastrophic failure.
“So you’re saying this won’t be on the test?”
An excursion into the outskirts of Trump Country.
Today, I’ll admit I have no idea what an effective form of protest looks like, but getting together as a group with signs and props feels archaic and useless, almost as if it was invented by those who want any dissent to be easily dismissed.
On Asexuality Appreciation Week.
It’s been a month, so we’re checking in on our old friend Burt to see if he’s grown a neck beard yet.
It’s wrong to hope for a conviction for any reason besides guilt. But I do it anyway.
Judging is very hard to do.
A few words from a momentarily homeless editor emeritus.
I drove a few hundred miles to trade my two youngest children for a generator, gasoline, and 3 Walmart bag of batteries and various illumination devices. Though it might sound like the plot to the next Mad Max movie, I deemed it a responsible parenting decision.
Should I buy a car from Larry’s Automobiles, a dealer known colloquially as Larry’s Lemons?
Without my feminist foremothers, I could not vote, own property, practice law, effectively decide the size of my family, etc. American women owe a lot to feminism, whether they admit it or not. Nevertheless, I admit to finding myself bristling- and rolling my eyes- at much of what passes for feminism today.
Car was recently totaled. I need advice from grown-ups.
Last time, I promised you I would write a bit about microfoundations. I will not be doing that today. I apologize for breaking my promise, but it is to my great sorrow that I must digress. Instead of the planned topic, I will revisit motivation. More specifically, I will revisit my own motivation for the campaign I am running right now.
So, the other day I tweeted disagreement with popular Twitter personality Jesse Kelly, and found myself at the bottom of a dog pile.
I can’t say for certain when the first time I ever heard an Aretha Franklin album was. Her music was simply always there, in the the same way that Ella’s music was always there. I was weaned on her music, and to it.
After the eulogy, a peculiar hollowness.
Today is Wendell Berry’s birthday. He’s 84. May his 85th year on this planet be a bountiful and invigorating one. Maribou elaborates on her feelings about his work, inside.
Looking towards an empty nest.
I felt so disappointed for my son in his inability to excel at baseball. I had simply concluded that he lacked talent, and that was that. Of course, I would cheer him on and encourage him as long as he was interested, but, I assumed, the writing was on the wall. I pigeonholed him as “not an athlete”, just like me. Knowing now that it is quite likely that his vision was at least partially to blame for his trouble is a humbling reminder: our kids are not just small versions of ourselves.
The story of an American dreaming of an America from abroad.
Burt Likko has one of those sorts of problems that really aren’t such bad problems to have.
You know what they say about fighting on the internet: even if you win, you’re still a loser. But Twitter has taught me that it can actually be good for you, if you do it right.
Introducing lawyer, liberal, and new Ordinary Times staff writer, Em Carpenter.
Advice to a supporter of a controversial anti-gay rights amendment.
A partial setlist with autobiographical fragments.
Fan? I’ve Seen It Over 100 Times on Three Continents!