Goin' to the fair.
Take a bite out of Sharon, Fridays at FITK
Goin' to the fair.
a party—changing lights can't remember where i am, then i am alone looking down into a deep hole—i know if i get too close i'll be pulled in by some perverse/reverse will power something important is happening—i can sense it, but what? where did everyone go? and now i am a child again—throwing stones i hit a boy on the forehead, and the blood flows right out and i feel sick so i run away and then my mother tells me not to do it and i have to go to the apartment house and tell the boys mother i'm sorry even though he started it then there is the wail of a siren i think it is the police coming for me and...
Until last Thursday, I had never dreamt a recipe before. In the dream I was at a country restaurant where the cook offered me some black, tarry chunks of meat.
Sharon has become one with The Karen people of Burma.
I had been meaning to catch one of the performances at the Brave New Workshop's Student Union for a long time. My old friend Andy was in the troupe and last Friday night was reserved for their "Stage Match" format, where a group of students in the program were picked at random to be in one of three groups an hour before the show!
Handheld, futuristic, one flashy channel.
Sean, I'm writing from the library downtown, I'm getting really paranoid at home, there are definitely people following me. I don't think they'll try anything in a public place, I think I lost them (for a while at least) back at the market. I've got a friend in Ballard I can stay with, I'll take a taxi, I know they're watching my car. This may not have anything to do with you. Remember when I asked you not to run a background check on me? It was for your own good. Things aren't turning out the way we planned, are they? Shit. They're here, in the library. I'll say good bye, maybe I can
Of all the 'blessings' of the internet revolution, perhaps the one which most fulfills the ideal of a free and unfettered world access to knowledge is Wikipedia. It isn't perfect, some of its entries are just plain bad, but on the whole it works surprisingly well. I've often been pleasantly surprised by the quality and depth of the information it contains. I've contributed to it myself, it is easy to do (if you don't try to get too clever with formatting) and can be very rewarding to be able to watch an awkward stub blossom into a in-depth treatment of an obscure topic.
In perfect unison.
Word has been received of the death of Ted E. Tinquist. He was born March 28, 1910, in Bristol, S.D., and his family moved to Grand Rapids in 1921. He graduated from Grand Rapids High School in 1928 and started Tinquist Signs right out of high school. He married Lily Parks on March 21, 1932. In 1941, he started the Grand Rapids Airport and worked with both the sign company and the airport until he was drafted into the Army Air Corps during World War II. After the war, he worked full time with the flight training school at the Grand Rapids Airport for two years. In 1948, he sold the airport and spent full time with the sign business. He served as a lay pastor for many years in the surrounding area, including Bethel Lutheran Church in Warba where he served for 20 years. He also served in many community organizations including the Itasca Art Association, Restoration of Central School, and the Itasca County Historical Society. He was chairman of the Bass Brook Township and was a member of the Itasca County Planning Commission. He was a well known area artist and creator of the picture "Devotions."
~ Itasca County obituaries
Over-aged Gymnast sparks inquiry... and intrigue.
I used to visit all the very gay placesI spent much of my late twenties and early thirties in places like this, working, not drinking, but nevertheless the atmosphere permeated my existence. Ray Price once sang: "The nightlife, it ain't no good life, but it's my life." I was making minimum wage (barely) by schlepping gear for an R&B band in exchange for three hours of glory when the music and the booze would take us all away from our everyday miseries. Most of the places we worked weren't too bad, but the ones with strippers and sleazy wet t-shirt contests were the worst.
Those come what may places
Where one relaxes on the axis
Of the wheel of life
To get the feel of life
From jazz and cocktails
The girls I knew had sad and sullen gray facesAnd then there were the bad times, really bad things, bad things involving fists and guns and then nobody had any fun. I got out. Others did not. I'll still drop in to a nightclub once in a while—to hear a band or perhaps to get together with a group of old friends. But that time when every night was Saturday night is over for me; no regrets, except maybe one small one, but the small sadness it brings is a comfort, not a sorrow.
With distant gay traces
That used to be there you could see
Where they'd been washed away
By too many through the day,
Twelve o'clock tales
I’ll forget you, I will
While yet you are still burning
Inside my brain
Romance is mush
Stifling those who strive
I’ll live a lush life in some small dive...
And there I’ll be,
While I rot
With the rest of those
Whose lives are lonely, too
~"Lush Life" lyrics by Billy Strayhorn