Special, Not Special


As a result of the blending of reality and fantasy, some women have chosen to willingly play along by a new set of rules in order to keep their men interested: They’re intentionally impersonating porn stars. Sadie, a real-estate agent, says, “A lot of guys have come to expect P.S.E. [the “Porn-Star Experience”] as a common thing — snatches waxed bald, access to every hole —and plenty of women are more than happy to provide. A few might enjoy it, but for most it’s harrowing. I think there’s a fear that if they can’t make it happen, their boyfriend will retreat online.” New York Magazine

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Bad For Mommies Too


If only it weren’t now necessary for most women to work to provide basic support to their families, Nance writes in her comment yesterday.

And of course I had told only part of it, the overall story is one of sadness and powerlessness—make no mistake, on the part of all of us, and ironically, that much harder to tell. For is there ever a single pointedness to history. Chomsky, Lowe and others tell us, No.
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Send Me A Letter

Come down here and be my house monk. Course you can’t do that. Kids and all. And I am so much older than I used to be. I no longer look or feel very foxy, although god knows of course that I am a good-looking woman. Some things never change. I was watching Otis Redding at Monterey Pop, a time seemed to last forever, then. I don’t think I could bear to watch it if I didn’t, in some far corner of my dreams, think it could all happen again. Or never ended. Right, and Otis is not dead. He was twenty-five at the time of those incredible recordings. Twenty-five and bursting with a talent it’s hard to account for, with soul and good looks. Good moves. What if someone like that had lived?
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Late Afternoon 1967

Late Afternoon 1967

“We are but a moment’s sunlight fading in the grass …” I was kneeling on the floor next to the big radio, weaving to the music. It was late afternoon. We had drunk perhaps foulest concoction ever, boiled dope tea, never to do so again. But the stoned-ness, ah, the stoned-ness. The extent to which one was stoned, the way in which one knew oneself to be utterly, thoroughly, completely stoned, washed over me in that special dope way, a feeling of both sinking and rising at the same time, much as a feather might float this way and that upon the air. Continue reading “Late Afternoon 1967”

Taking It To The Streets

Rabbi Lerner, AlterNet: It is not a mistake for people to be demanding of Obama that he BE the Obama they voted for. But what would be a mistake is to think that such a demand is going to be given credence until we form a powerful movement of our own that is ready to take action and bring people into the streets …

Oh please. Like that’s ever going to happen. Ever. The streets don’t exist in the way they did in the Sixties—okay, Cal student protests recently took to Telegraph Avenue, but that’s like one street—and as for building a powerful movement … American Idol, that’s the powerful movement America wants, likes, is willing to spend coin texting those votes… and it doesn’t require leaving the house. You noticed.

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All The Leaves Were Brown

Mackenzie Phillips Opens Up About Her Father: He taught me to roll joints when I was 10. He took out some pot from a shoebox and showed me … and I became the official joint roller.

Sigh. The Sixties. The last time the male ethos ran free … and wasn’t it all Peace and Love. I can imagine that John Phillips rationalized that he was sharing a beautiful thing with his daughter. Both the dope and the sex. Because it was All Beautiful, man. Continue reading “All The Leaves Were Brown”

The Haze Is Purple


Chez Pazienza: What a Long, Strange, Thoroughly Obnoxious Trip It’s Been: If you weren’t able to be there for whatever reason (you were part of the oppressive establishment or, you know, hadn’t been born yet) the Woodstock folks need you to understand that, dammit, you should wish you could have been.

So this guy writes a long, predictable rant in the HuffPo today, Will the boomers just fucking die and leave him alone—which we will, given time Continue reading “The Haze Is Purple”


The power of an appeal to decency @ The Paepae

“Let us not assassinate this lad further, Senator; you’ve done enough,’ he cried; and as McCarthy showed that he was going to go on regardless, Welch added: ‘Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?’…

But this is precisely what I think we’ve lost, in the dissolution of all things decent that the awful democracy of the Internet has brought about, and shall never see again. Not in the same way. Moral authority—where is the Joseph Welch of today? Continue reading “Lost”