This tumblr makes me really happy.
" Chicken did his thirty days in a snug coop. Wherefore he was, as he said, ‘leary of kids.’ "
Image: If you know who took this photograph of Jean-Paul Belmondo, please contact us.
"Alas a dirty word, alas a dirty third alas a dirty third, alas a dirty bird."
Trolling fast-food restaurants is part of my job. It’s a boring, one-note thing to have to do, but it’s something our audience loves to read about and since this is a job, I have to deliver on the traffic front. The stories subsidizes the weirder things I write, stories about Heinz Classic Heirloom Tomatoes, different representations of agriculture in the California’s Central Valley, or rare Siberian cattle. When I have to spend too much time getting angry about Taco Bell or McDonald’s, I think about that Moe Tkacik story in the Columbia Journalism Review where she talked about writing for Jezebel but not personally caring about the things she wrote about. “Contempt would just have to be part of the ‘Moe Tkacik brand.’”
So when I come across something that lets me turn the tables, to fuck with readers a bit by challenging all of the preconceived notions they come to these stories with, it’s a lot of fun. Writing that hating McDonald’s makes you a Russian nationalist, like I did today, was one of those opportunities. I also got to read a Bill Keller story from 1990 about the opening of the first McDonald’s in Moscow, which was really enjoyable too.
Justice Anthony Kennedy (via coketalk)
When the liberals get Kennedy, they really get Kennedy.
One grade-school summer, I wore a rust-orange jersey with the words “Iowa Malleable” printed across the chest while standing in left, center or right field, being generally terrible at baseball. The foundry was one of a handful of manufacturers in town that sponsored Little League teams: There was a brush plant, a washing-machine manufacture, a subsidiary of Rockwell International that fabricated truck and trailer parts.
I wrote an essay for The Billfold about the economy of the small Iowa town I grew up in and about buying a house in a hispanic neighborhood in Los Angeles—the second time I’ve been a gentrifier.
A few marigolds planted alongside the tomatoes were the only non-productive flowers that graced these food-producing plots. Herbs were religiously pinched to keep them from going to seed, and the tight furls that dotted the heads of broccoli only opened up in a profusion of mustard yellow blooms when we were all away on vacation. Pea, bean, pepper, tomato, strawberry, cucumber, zucchini, cherry, apple and pear flowers all made their appearances, but as a means to an end—the vegetables and fruits that followed the blooms is what my dad was after.
I wrote about growing flowers and the gender dynamics of my parents’ garden.
County of Los Angeles Fire Department
Just in case you want to rent a herd of goats and write an essay about people judging you for it.