can't. stop. vibrating.
perhaps it's just the eleven cups of coffee.
it's punkin' times!
tom wright makes a funny
we have this thing in the anglican church where no service is complete without one of these wretched little microphones, and we have the line at the beginning of the service where the bishop is struggling with the equipment and the congregation has a service sheet that they are expecting to follow through, and the bishop says, “there’s something wrong with this microphone,” and the congregation obediently responds, “and also with you.” it could almost be a definition of postmodernity, actually, that, where something comes back at you revealing your own inadequacies.for the article, hat tip to rick @ world of your making
why not to read mcsweeney's lists in the library
i read it somewhere
technology creates a false man, a man who leans how to find happiness in what is given to him by the system. his soul is created as the image of what he can have.
alves -- and others who share his point of view -- is more interested in men
as bearers of freedom and dignity than as consumers of goods.
that was the single greatest football game i think i've ever seen. and the irish lost. imagine how excited i'd be if nd would've stopped the 4th down play. i'm sure i jinxed them when i started videotaping the tv during the last minute. tragic, i say. my daughter, who got to stay up late to see the end of the game and has yet to go to sleep, was just heard to say from her bed: "i am notre dame." man. that, and an 18th inning walk-off in one week (on top of the sox bowing out). makes me want to stop watching sports.
but then the pats play . . .
archbishop williams and the city
and i am officially mourning tonight. please, no mean emails about the red sox gettin' swept right out of the playoffs on their rear ends. allow me to grieve in peace. for that, i thank you, and my children thank you.
fathomed the depths of seas, of states, of kings,
walked with a staff to heav'n, and traced fountains:
but there are two vast, spacious things,
the which to measure it doth more behove:
yet few there are that sound them; sin and love.
who would know sin, let him repair
unto mount olivet; there shall he see
a man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,
his skin, his garments bloody be.
sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain
to hunt his cruel food thorugh ev'ry vein.
who knows not love, let him assay
and taste that juice, which on the cross a pike
did set again abroach; then let him say
if ever he did taste the like.
love is that liquor sweet and most divine,
which my god feels as blood; but i, as wine.
("the agony" from george herbert, the complete english poems (ed. john tobin) (london: penquin, 1991), 33-34; reflection during vts quiet day, 27 sept 2005)