- Was asked about my Obama hate by multiple people over the weekend. I'm guessing Obama's speech on Trayvon Martin re-inspired his supporters. Perhaps I should blog daily - compile links listing all the multiple facets of his destructive daily fuckitude. So yes, those three sentences - and nine bullets down - goaded out of me. Well-played.
- For instance.
- I'd also point out the 35 years ago Obama was smoking weed, not trying to shut down medical marijuana that alleviates the suffering of horribly ill people.
- The crisis of financial capitalism and the exhaustion of neoliberalism.
- The splendiferous difference Obama makes.
- Obama's escalating war against freedom of the press.
- A ray of hope for Bradley Manning?
- The need to target terrorists.
- Happy Birthday, Raghead!
- No, he couldn't. Though yes, America's Republicans and their supporters suck, suck worse day after day, especially but not exclusively regarding the rights of women. It again begs the question: why do Democrats in general and this president in particular, for all his pretty pep rally speeches - remain pegged to the +.06% less-shitty standard? That it's a rhetorical question is the problem. That it's a strategy - blackmail with Louis Gohmerts, which is the intent of the Salon article, yo, while servicing the same masters as the party of Louis Gohmerts - makes Democrats more contemptible.
- Let him not admit impediments.
- The enemy of my enemy is skeevy.
- New Inquiry's Sunday links.
- Google wants to live forever.
- You could adopt a cat today too.
- Literary metamodernisms.
- Silliman's always generous lit-links.
- Tindersticks.
- Dave reminded me of Renaldo & the Loaf last night.
NATIONAL ACCOUNT
Joel Craig
How do you recognize a lovely place?
The rotten anthropology of superheroes
hovers above the conference table, exhausted
on the idea of dazzling people. A plugged
organization of the moon like a turnpike
undecorated by barely legal children —
true stories end in the moody doctor city
but I always say the wrong thing. Away
from Las Vegas I spend too much time
at the whale facility. I’m bored with awakening
into historical X-rays
of the NO MOMENT. (What showmanship!)
Who does wear a cape underwater?
Now Egypt is miniaturized and it may never rain
again. Hurling bodies and collapsing lungs
used to be honestly scripted activities —
the stillness in the dream of important history.
From now on your stillness will be happening.
In the actual dream remember how the children
were modified, the sputtering, Russel Crotty language?
Friendly Calliope is no longer remedial
in the crisply American landscape. Even snowy
Vermont grows opaque, a diminished suggestion
in the desert mirror. I feel as if I’m speaking to a dear friend
but I’m saying the wrong things. I don’t like cockfights
or you’d rather be my daughter, deeply, authentically
factualizing our especially Southern roots.
