Hopefully there won’t be too many outages on this station while I untangle my nameservers.
Today I learned your gun permit is an acceptable form of voter identification, which feels almost too American.
Ohio. Sunset: 7:01pm. When I stepped outside this morning, I saw my breath—the first frost of the season.
This election will test how much cruelty Americans will tolerate, and how many of us crave it.
He said, “The president recognizes the best way to restore normalcy to people’s lives is to bring back entertainment options.”
An empathy machine sounds like a pretty good leader right now.
Somewhere in southeastern Ohio, I drove past two ranch houses sitting side by side with tidy sidewalks and neatly mowed lawns.
Somewhere north of Columbus, we tuned in to the first night of the Democratic National Convention.
“You can put on a jacket,” she says, “but you can’t take off your skin.”
And for a lunatic moment I wonder if it will keep raining until everything is washed clean.
Nobody died from the pandemic in New York City the other day.
We had a pleasant June for a while, but the long mean heat of summer is finally here. Beyond this, I’m losing the plot.
Aliens could land in America and we would politicize them until they became just another round of ammo in our endless red versus blue battle.
More than ever, surrealism might be the best strategy for surviving these days.
I want to square my life with these instructions from Thich Nhat Hanh: “Vow to work for reconciliation by the most silent and unpretentious mean possible.”
