45 minutes to save the world

December 20, 2010

 

How much did you spend on your car?
How much did you spend on your government?

Which one works?

 


I am going to ask you to spend 45 minutes watching this clip. It won’t even cost you cash. Just time. Less than an hour.

[Oh like you do not have the time I know you spent at least that much time on your hair.]

Just watch it. It might save the world.

 

 

the liberal lion

August 26, 2009

 

kennedy

Senator Edward Moore “Ted” Kennedy, 1932 – 2009
:::nytimes retrospective:::

 

 

where the art work comes from :
doug mills, nytimes

senator kennedy’s political works :
a nytimes video

senator kennedy’s cause :
universal health care speech

senator kennedy’s nytimes obituary :
edward kennedy, senate stalwart, dies

 

goth_deadSo —

I have been watching this dead celebrity phenom and if there is one lesson to take away from it, it is —

Clearly if I want to be totally famous and loved, I need to be dead.

Okay, Max Adams is dead. Let the lovefest begin.

 


*to make this work by the way you have to go somewhere on the internet and say max adams is dead — after the number of teeth i had to pull to get winery votes though i am not especially counting on this happening

 

where the art work comes from :
that is from musyne

 

uncle_samI am not posting today.

I want you to read something else instead :

 

Death at the Holocaust Museum and the Degradation of the American Dialogue

~ by Michael Rowe

Ann Coulter, the self-described “conservative Christian” right-wing talking head, is much on my mind as I contemplate the horrifying images that came out of Washington from the Holocaust Museum, where white supremacist James von Brunn opened fire in an attempted mass-murder of Jews. His killing spree was cut short by security guard Stephen Tyrone Jones who put himself in the line of fire and died so others might live.

I am remembering an October 2007 segment of the Donny Deutsch Show where Coulter asserted that America would be better off if everyone was Christian and that “the Jews” merely needed to be “perfected” through conversion.

:::more:::

 


*interestingly i do not think it has occurred to coulter if her postulations are correct that means christians all just need to be perfected through conversion to islam — mohammed was the prophet/messiah following on jesus’ heels after all

*do not skip :::more:::

 

where that story comes from :
that is from the huffington post

where the art work comes from :
that is from dale soreen

 

accident_iiI was fifteen.

I was being told there was an accident.

I said, Well how is she?

People looked at me funny.

Finally someone said, She is dead, Max.

 


:::part i:::
:::part ii:::
:::part iii:::

 

where the art work comes from :
that is from ketou daisuki

 

accident_iiI walked —

Or at least limped out of a lot of big car wrecks before I was five. More by the time I was ten. More by the time I was fifteen.

Time after time. Big wrecks. Probably the count would be real scary except, I have forgotten the count. There were too many.

 


:::part i:::
:::part ii:::
:::part iii:::

 

where the art work comes from :
that is from ketou daisuki

 

accident_iiI wonder sometimes why —

I am still here. That Saab accident is not the only accident that has not touched me. Another time, I was on the road and two cars and a Mac truck got into a big argument. It started with some sort of bizarre blow out with one of the cars. I saw it go out, the car was on my left. I slammed brakes and it went spinning by in front of me and hit a car on my right. And that car spun out. And then they were both bouncing off the side rails and one hit the truck. The Mac truck. And hitting and knocking the truck off kilter was the end. Everything went to hell then.

It was early [freak early like 6 am do not ask] and there was no dead stop traffic in front of us. But. Every car on the road that day took a hit. Spun the hell out and all over and smacked metal against metal and metal against concrete and went to pieces. Except mine. I was in the middle of bedlam.

Untouched.

Again.

 


:::part i:::
:::part ii:::
:::part iii:::

 

where the art work comes from :
that is from ketou daisuki

my father’s ashes

February 16, 2009

 

My father is dead.

It seems like that needs to be said. And like that is too blunt a way to say it.

 


My father’s ashes are in the possession of an aging former beauty queen contestant.

This seems, knowing my father, somehow very fitting.

And at the same time very very wrong.

 


The aging former beauty queen contestant says her father owns a fishing boat and plans to take my father’s ashes out to sea.

That is definitely wrong.

My father would want his ashes dumped at a local race track.

 


I have read a lot of obituaries and last thoughts written by strangers about my father. And most of them are useless and not about the man at all. So. It falls to me. His estranged daughter. To say something actually real about my father.

 


My father’s name was John Quincy Adams. Named after his father. A man from Boston who told my grandmother no children and when she singlehandedly got pregnant walked out on her. It was not an easy name to wear. Explain. Justify. Or dismiss. As an adult he changed it out a lot. As a kid he got in a lot of fights. As a kid he also had such awful tonsillitis doctors looking at his X-rays asked if he had had tuberculosis.

He was a tall man and did not suffer fools lightly. He was often unkind. But generally fair. And very good at math. He apologized once in his life. To his daughter. He was handsome as hell as a young man. And never noticed that had faded in later age. Perhaps because he never exactly realized he had looks. My father thought for all of his life he was trading on charm and never got most people only put up with him initially because he was so damned good looking. And never understood the difference between charm and sarcasm.

His forebears include two presidents, many revolutionaries, a movie star, a train robber and song writer, twin vaudeville performers, a Scottish missionary and the founder of Richfield Oil. His great uncle is buried in the last crypt of the Hawaiin royal family. According to legend my father singlehandedly initiated the People’s Park riot.

He hated children. He said they destroyed lives and potential. This is what he told me. He may have had other tacks with people who were not his children. He definitely had other tacks with women he pursued who had children.

He liked and generally drove small sports cars — whether or not he fit into them. [And he mostly did not he was 6' 5".] His apartments were always horrific and contained many hard water stains. Fortunately he generally did not spend much time at home he spent the majority of his time at work. In bars. Or at the homes of beautiful women. The one time he had a fancy home it was a house boat but he lost that to the Italian Mafia and chose never to live anywhere extremely elegant again. [As legend has it, he won that house boat in a bet. And lost it backing up a friend.] He liked beer in green and brown bottles — and preferred green. His best friends were hard scarred men who laughed like they meant it, wore overly ornate loafers, carried concealed weapons without permits and talked about everything except war when they were full of drink. And one woman who despite her looks and breasts he treated like a man — which in my father’s terms means like an equal — and I have never exactly discerned why but it must have been something big and probably involved gunfire and emergency vehicles to garner that kind of respect on his part because in general he did not consider women equals. He had a weakness for pretty women, especially stupid pretty women — and horses. And considered both equally intelligent but horses more trustworthy. He told the IRS he made his income writing. But brought most of his cash home from the track. You could always tell when he was really sick because that was the only time he did not show up at the track. He did not tell jokes well. He did tell anecdotes well. And he had many. His favorite books were huge tomes written in Japanese and translated into English — and he found it hugely amusing discussing them with women, especially discussing them with unintelligent women. He hated his mother, never knew his father, loved his grandmother, feared and loathed his wife[s], disdained his step-father and abandoned his daughter. He was a horrible father. Which might have changed if he had had a son but he was cursed to be a man who distrusted women and then accidentally sired one. Aside, however, from being a misogynistic prick, he was a decent man. The world is probably shorter for the loss of him.

 

— John Quincy Adams died January 21, 2009

 

back behind the line

November 30, 2008

 

sheepJesus God.

[Someone hold the Evangelicals down when I say that ow.]

Okay, so far I have heard about one Wal-Mart employee who is dead trampled to death by holiday shoppers and two people dead after a shooting at a Toys-R-Us store.

WTF?

Wal-Mart?

Toys-R-Us?

For Chrissake’s people that is not worth dying for that is not even Gaultier.

 

where the art work comes from :
that is from alvaro herreras

one of my stalkers is dead

October 11, 2008

 

 

adeiuOne of my stalkers is dead.

Perhaps the most disturbing part of that statement is I can use the words “one of” and not be exaggerating.

Most of my stalkers are not exactly healthy people. They are sort of deranged people who are not good about things like taking care of themselves. They are good at things like swinging baseball bats outside diners accosting strangers and demanding to know if these strangers know me.

[Hint: If someone swinging a baseball bat outside a diner asks if you know Max Adams the correct answer is no.]

It is not surprising one of my stalkers is dead.

Really the only unusual thing about this stalker’s death is, I know he is dead.

That does not happen too often. Hearing a stalker is dead. I guess authorities think notifying next of kin is more important. And the stalkees, well, we take our chances.

There are people effected by this death. People feeling grief. Loss. This person was someone’s son. A mother’s son. A father’s son. The people notified, the parents. They cared.

I? What I find myself feeling is anger.

I am still angry this person stole one of my dog’s toys.

 

where the art work comes from :
that is adeiu by photopixel

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