And I know it’s poor form to publish a blog post containing only memes. (That’s what social media is for.) But these two were just too good not to share with as wide an audience as possible.
This blog WAS supposed to be about writing, when I started it once upon an idealistic time. And typos are an occupational hazard for writers, so I figure it’s okay.
Anyway, I cannot take credit for creating these … I found them on Facebook.
Drawn by Adam Hughes, inked by Karl Story, and colored by Anthony Tollin.
(I had to consult the Facebook nerd-hive-mind to find out the creative team behind this piece — thanks to Charlie McElvey for the info, and, by extension, Frank Becker. 🙂 )
This was one of the “Shakespeare Solos” series that The Guardian produced last year on the 400th Anniversary of his death. It’s damn good.
The series also features David Morrissey and Ralph Fiennes doing monologues.
*Covfefe dooon’t like it …
ROCK the Casbah, ROCK the Casbah!
Covfefe dooon’t like it …
ROCK the Casbah, ROCK the Casbah!
*In best doctor voice: “Okay, now turn your head and covfefe.”
*”Covfefe at me, Bro!!!”
Okay, I will stop making these jokes tonight.
I was chatting with Dennis Villelmi today, and I told him the entire situation is stupid on so many levels. The president is stupid for tweeting “covfefe;” WE are stupid for finding it so funny, as though we were a group of junior high school students; the press sounds at least a little stupid for asking about an obvious typo’s “meaning;” Trump’s supporters are stupid for buying into the idea that it was a message in Arabic; Sean Spicer is stupid for trying to pretend that it was … a coded message? To a “small number of people?”
At the same time he’s trying to avoid the implication that Trump or his people are passing information to the Russians?
From Wikimedia Commons: So-called “Gorgon Painter’s dinos” black-figure technique with crimson appreciations. From Etruria, ca. 580 BC. Detail of the shoulder: Perseus followed by the Gorgons after the murder of their sister, Medusa.
“Bluebird,” by Charles Bukowski
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
Rest in peace, Gregg Allman.
I first got acquainted with music of The Allman Brothers Band as a first-semester freshman at Mary Washington College in 1990. My cultural illiteracy as an 18-year-old was embarrassing — especially where music was concerned. I’d arrived at the small, fairly conservative Virginia state school listening to … well, very little other than what I’d heard on the MTV countdown. (I started loving Richard Wagner as a high school senior — but that niche interest was rare for someone my age, so far as I was aware.) It was an ongoing issue when I was a college freshman that upperclassmen would roll their eyes or even occasionally hiss when I told them what music I was into.
Alumnus Steve Miller and his friends were the exception. They showed me far more patience at their parties in “The Tunnel” between Mason and Randolph Halls — they exposed me to tons of The Allman Brothers, Pink Floyd, The Steve Miller Band, and The Beatles. (No, the irony of a guy named Steve Miller coincidentally loving The Steve Miller Band was not lost on us.) Steve and his friends were each, in varying degrees, an amalgam of Obi-Wan and a far mellower version one of the guys from “Animal House” (1978).
The Allman Brothers were really my first extended exposure to Southern rock. (And, hey, you can’t get much more Southern than a band made up of guys named Berry Oakley or Butch Trucks.) I listened to them whenever there was a party at Steve’s, even after he started hosting his soirees out of his apartment on Sunken Road. Everyone there loved The Allman Brothers. I think “Ramblin’ Man” was probably the group’s favorite.
Today, “Midnight Rider” is by far and away my favorite Allman Brothers song. Curiously enough, though, for the life of me, I do not remember hearing that one in college. I actually started jamming to it after I heard Rob Zombie include it in the score for the opening montage of “The Devil’s Rejects” horror film in 2005.
Anyway … “The Tunnel” at “Mary Washington College” has apparently now been remodeled into the above-ground “The Link” at “The University of Mary Washington.”
Well la-dee-DA.
With my friends, “playing for the other team” doesn’t mean the god damn Russians.
Anyway, I have a novel idea for protecting the West from Russian aggression.
We should somehow change the acronym “NATO” to “NEATO,” so our five-year-old president will decide that he likes it.
Trumps’ presidency is such a disaster that, at this point, our only hope may be to launch a team of plucky oil drillers into space.
Every time I mention “Armageddon” (1998), someone makes a joke about its Morgantastic, Freemaniffic contemporary, “Deep Impact.” I tell people it is on my list of things to watch, but I still haven’t even seen “Predestination” (2014), “The Fifth Element” (1997) or a single episode of “Breaking Bad” (2008 – 2013).
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 