Gift shop chaos. #halakahiki
Gift shop chaos. #halakahiki
On this occasion, there are a couple of things that we know that we learned from fact magazine. One, the king wears a king hat and lives in a king house. Two, your time will come, but tonight is our night, so you should give us all of your drugs. Three, we have a black president and you do not, so shut up, because you don’t know shit about where I’m from that you didn’t get from your TV. #lcdsoundsystem #love
They say that Februrary is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.
Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest, all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its galoshes - and you’ll never catch February in stocking feet - it’s a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April’s nose.
However more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.
February is pitiless, and it is boring. That parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine’s Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine’s Day on February’s shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration indeed.
Except to the extent that it ‘tints the buds and swells the leaves within,’ February is as useless as the extra R in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.
James Joyce was born in February, as was Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo, which goes to show that writers are poor at beginnings, although worse at knowing when to stop.
If February is the color of lard on rye, it’s aroma is that of wet wool trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you’re small! Were you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May.”
— Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume (via earationaltruistudent)
My thoughts exactly.
— Aaron Sorkin
Old Graphic arts mag.
THE PRESS: If only the state owns it, men are slaves.
If anybody can own it, men are free.
No other artifact has this curious power.
The deadline has been extended to February 28th so now you have no excuse for not participating. Go forth and print.
…That’s the worst supervillain name I’ve ever heard.
Or the best…?