It's still fairly quiet out on the Lake. Many boaters remain curled in crawl spaces and hidden in fruit cellars. So the view is limitless water and sky, going on forever, it seems, if you pretend Canada doesn't exist. The calming infinite is only interrupted, in fact, by one lone, broken sail boat. It never comes home. Sits out there all winter, drifting to and fro, never getting too close to shore nor far off into the freighter channels. The sails have all worn away and there is no crew. But the rich people and the coast guard agree: no one's going near it. For the better part of 17 years now, that ship as been the sole providence of thousands of the town's bad luck cats. Police hire a local high school quarterback each year to throw feral and unloved kitties aboard it...
Author - Chris Weagel
Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
Not too long ago, fantastically rich people used tax payer money designated to bail out their glorified gambling house businesses to give themselves bonus payments. Now these same rich people are cutting the bare bones social security and Medicare monies that millions of working and poor people depend on for basic survival. Most of these poor people, though, still revere and worship this economic/political system to the point of proudly offering up their lives and the lives of their children to defend it. My response, the only sane response, remains: purchase a new American flag each week, cut it into strips and mix it in with my meals in the hopes that eventually I'll die of chemical poisoning from the colored dyes and plastic compounds used in its construction. OK One more time...
Americans are close to figuring out how to wrap a permanent set of christmas lights around pre-sliced ham and North Korea.
For the last several weeks, I've been sending vials of my disease-free blood to blind addresses in some of the wealthiest zip codes in the country. Each vial tied with a ribbon and a small, hand-written Thank You note “Just for being you” message.
I'll work my way up to amputated toes once I track down the PO boxes of some of our four and five star generals.
Lazlo sits all day meticulously crafting paper airplanes. After folding and creasing, his ball point pen comes out and he carefully draws dozens of tiny windows along both sides of the craft. He fills each with passengers of all manner – men, women, aunts, uncles, fathers, sons. Barristers, clergy, the lonely, the afraid, the loved and unloved. Bald men and pets, all strapped in tight. As he draws their portraits, he speaks aloud their story. Why they got on the plane, where they're headed, what they hope to find when they get there. Intimate details, far beyond their physical appearance. By the end, anyone nearby knows the story lines of a thousand made-up souls, created there on the spot by Lazlo's mind. At the end of the day, Lazlo takes his hard work to the cellar and...
The last children's placemat designer was killed today. Drone strike.
He was number two in the organization. His duties included drawing four identical pirate turtles and a fifth with just a few slight differences as well as deciding which corner to adorn with the upside down riddle answers and nerve agent procurement.
One thing all the world's disparate cultures and creeds can agree on is the simple joy of a carousel. Gently rotating, carved Arabian circus ponies and baby mules, beset with jewels and mirrors and well wishes, washed in the happiness of the calliope and the carnival man's stare.
Another thing we can all agree on are pork rinds. Laid out all over your stomach, no shirt on, spreading that hot sauce forward and back while your neighbors cut down all the trees. Hold onto those overcast Sunday afternoons. Hold onto them.
