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We have some HUGE names involved and many more details to come, but wanted to share the news with you guys first. For those of you who are Shea fans or members of his FOH Army, this needs no introduction… If not, Serrano is a writer for The Ringer, a two-time New York Bestselling author and the foremost expert on pop culture minutiae his words. I could do this all day. See, I told you? How do you not click on that? Read it right here. Iverson feels like the LAST person on earth who would ever enjoy silly string, care about silly string or put up with the stringy stuff being sprayed in his face.

The photo says it all. Have a great weekend and may you all live in a world with thick-skinned high bush blueberries and not the wild, thin-skinned kind! Would you mind sharing this newsletter with some friends who you think will enjoy it? They can sign up in 5 Seconds right here! Ever wonder how humans managed to go from primate to Amazon Prime addicts in a shade under 4 million years? Go ahead, give it a shot. I will not be surprised if this piece ends up in the Best American Sportswriting Anthology next year.

This video of a guy doing just that is kind of mesmerizing. I moved off the couch after 3 months or so and several years after that they demolished the whole building, but the friendships that we cemented in that house have remained strong and in tact through marriages and kids and jobs and moves and two decades of fantasy sports arguments and everything else. Sadly, our crew took one on the chin this week…. After winning round after round against cancer for almost five years following his initial diagnosis, the member of our squad with the biggest heart and the loudest laugh and the strongest engine inside of him was unable to throw any more punches at the disease he battled valiantly for so long.

His mind was ever-willing to fight, but his body was no longer able to keep up. He was taken from us far too soon and he will be missed deeply by all of us. Have a great weekend and may you all be lucky enough to have a friend as awesome and fun as Alex Hanan in your life one day! Your pals will, too. Share it with them. Any interest in being a fly on the wall while two comedy legends have lunch? He then went to college at the University of Detroit and averaged 32 points and 21 rebounds per game. A few years later, a new shoe company named Nike came calling.

This picture hurts to look at. Being color-blind and lazy helped me stumble into a beef jerky miracle: I may have oversold this one a bit though jerky is a miracle unto itself. This was more like whatever the next level after a nice surprise is. I arrive home and…the packages were not red.

Everyone wins. A tremendously written sentence if you need some motivation to chase your dreams. Been a Springsteen fan ever since. I gotta say, it tasted clean and led to a pleasant, refreshing brain buzz…that my 5-year-old quickly squandered when he melted down over me not buying him Funfetti Cake Pop Tarts. By the time you read this, we should be Burpees down. The first day it took me almost 25 minutes to finish. By Thursday, I was down to under 18 minutes. Have a great weekend and try not wear a tortured grimace while lowering yourself to the pea-green carpet in your family room.

No, really, I do. Summer Challenge — 10 sets of 10 Burpees per day, 10 days straight: I realize that the very idea of doing 1, burpees makes your quads start to quiver. I get it. Burpees are brutal. But you know what? They work your entire body. So why not? You, in Florida? You, in LA? You, in NYC? You, in Texas? My laptop is gross. Yours is too. Between kids playing on it, food, dirty fingers, more food, nasty human things and general dirt and grime, keyboards and laptops are havens for filth.

This article tells you how to clean yours up. He is a true master and so far, I highly recommend it. Buy it here. Ever wonder what it would be like if a whale shark swam under your fishing boat? The fish could probably swallow the entire boat and everyone in it…or flip it yards with its tail. P, and my first-born four-legged son has been my best buddy ever since: I asked the old man what he wanted to do to celebrate the week and he said he wanted to run sprints on a football field like the old days, so we walked to our town field and had a great time. The 3.

It was impossible for me not to watch this video of WWE wrestlers in a tug-of-war contest with a lion: Do I really need to say anything else? This lioness is incredible. This futuristic speed-reading app was recommended by a loyal reader: My good buddy Jess, also known as Ace, texted me about this Spritz reading app that digests books or online articles and then blasts the words out in an easy-on-the-eyes, easy-to-read format. Great read with some cool infographics, especially about world records. Done and done. Especially on the beach somewhere. Get it now. And the writing is superb.

It involves science and great white sharks and a near-death experience. These are just a few of the movies from my childhood that showcased Twinkies. Then, in , Hostess went bankrupt and we lived in a world without Twinkie the Kid. What the guy does is absurd and makes no sense. Why he throws it? I have no idea. The gift I give myself every summer: Summers are awesome for everything except your feet. They get hot. They get swampy. Several years ago I decided to give my feet a gift every summer with a yearly set of new, sweat-wicking, breathable socks.

I try a new brand every year. This year, Slazenger. Just think about how great it feels when your feet feel great. There are a few courses I might try and some other strategies, but this 5-minute video actually had some tips that helped me speed things up already. Never heard of this Brain Athlete guy before, but not bad. What do you think? She had one and immediately ordered us a box. Do you feel the need? The need for speed?

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Somewhere out there, Goose is smiling. Yes, I just bought it. And the thing was: It was so easy. The question one of my favorite writers tackles is, 25 years after the fictional bar shut down, how would a real-life Malone exist in a world of gastro pubs, Twitter, Tinder and his contemporary ex-athletes dancing on TV?

I accepted the offer and I was pleasantly surprised. The tea is delicious and stays mixed over ice. You be the judge. Using a warm-up level weight for you, do seconds of deadlifts, followed by seconds of burpees, followed by one minute rest and keep it up for fifteen minutes… Or do it for twelve minutes and then take a five minute break before you finish the last two rounds.

Imagine the coolest thing he could have said. Now watch him say it. Had a nice, smooth kick and tasted great black. The storytelling device Smith used… the structure… the brilliance of all of it. I could barely get out of bed. My daughter had to put my socks on because I had so much lower back pain. So I turned to Dr. I never heard of this guy but the stretch he demonstrates around the mark was a lifesaver. Have a great weekend and please avoid the air splitting apart and the red black roar of the earth!

I just discovered this guy on YouTube and he builds ludicrous but fantastic Rube Goldberg machines involving absurd levels of timing, planning and household gadgets, in this case all lined up to serve a piece of cake.


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Ten if you watch it five times like I did. The swinging chandelier, the baby and the deadpan seamless eating are crowd pleasers. So I went on the hunt for one bar to rule them all — a bar for body, hair, face and shaving. But I can understand it. I once smoked. Cigarettes never made me feel particularly good. They made me feel foggy and listless. Also, a young woman running vigorously up and down a steep flight of steps connecting Galer to Fourth Avenue North.

It both puzzled and inspired me. It was exceedingly unwise to be running that vigorously on day when the particulate matter from wildfire smoke was so thick. But she seemed to be doing great, really enjoying herself. The physicality and energy of her being radiated a singular joy. It was Blakean. August 23 rd , on my 71 st birthday, the air became better.

The air quality index map showed Seattle in the green with a reading of particulate matter at I could go for a run on my birthday. I had a birthday coupon. I took my constellation of organs and organelles and sat them down in a booth with a view of fishing boats. Signals of light passed through the lenses of my eye to the retina where photoreceptors called rods and cones converted the information to electrical impulses that my brain interpreted as boats and water.

As people strolling by. As two eagles spiraled over Salmon Bay.

Ts Madison “LiptonTeaHour chronicles” Follow your Signs

I could barely see them. But there they were. Slowly turning. Turning and turning in the widening gyre, as Yeats would say.

Some like it cold

Swords, powerful speeches, blood splattered everywhere. A great play. Fields exchange digs and insults with a sullen, overweight waitress in a hard-boiled diner. I listen again to a nine-minute interview with Georges Bataille on YouTube that fascinates me.

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The chief subject of the interview is his book Literature and Evil. It must break taboos, make transgressions. How to find meaning, how to maintain meaning, how to deepen meaning, how to destroy meaning, how to create meaning. Why this obsession with meaning? The question answers itself. The more elusive meaning becomes, the more obsessed I become in its search. This is how fugues are born. Posted by John Olson at AM 2 comments:. I like food. Some people like everything. Broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, asparagus, beetroot, cabbage.

Not me. Not yet. My preferences lean toward pasta: fettucine, spaghetti, tortellini, penne, rigatoni. Preferably with meatballs. At the moment, there is all kind of food in the local grocery stores. But that may change soon. This is an indication that temperatures will rise globally destroying crops and habitat. People do not react well to this.

I love illusion. Though I also hate it a little, too. Remember childhood? I apologize for my presumption. Illusions of worth based on commodity are toxic. Jean Baudrillard famously argued that the commodification of everything is powerfully alienating. Illusions of self-worth or public esteem based on what, and how much, you own. What matters is owning it.

Land, houses, cars, politicians. But if you own a number of luxury cars and live in a mansion with thirty-four bathrooms with golden faucets and handmade Italian tiles, people will hang on your every burp and fart. And goop. People love goop. Goop and simulation. The simulation of goop. Mirrors, selfies, reality TV. Jesus riding a triceratops. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal… It is no longer a question of imitation, nor duplication, nor even parody.

It is a question of substituting the signs of the real for the real. Celebrities are the inhabitants, the true replicants, of the hyperreal. Our current president is a hyperreality of a blonde Aryan comb-over that looks like the hood of a car, a terminally fake tan that makes his bloated face appear orange, and a flagrantly pornographic relationship with women. Paradoxically, simulation has killed illusion. Reality itself is too obvious to be true. Nothing is entirely explicit without becoming implicit. Meaning has imploded. There is no meaning.


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  • Information proliferates like toxic algae on the surface of a dying ocean. There is more and more information and less and less meaning. I crave the illusion of meaning. I crave the illusion of transcendence, of a public, or at least a tiny fragment of the public, that continue to appreciate art. Real art. Art in its most intense, most subversive, most imaginary form. This is a futile ideal. The public is told what to like.

    Not overtly.

    But with the right trickery in the popular media — the superficial patter, the toothy grins - the herd instinct kicks in and the next thing you know the art museum of a major city is featuring a miserable hack like Andrew Wyeth. Public taste follows the line of least resistance. People are lazy, especially when it comes to anything the requires sacrificing a sense of normality. The medium and the message have, at last, homogenized.

    They are one and the same. Everything, in Pataphysical terms, is a unique event with its own singular laws. It insists on a universe of exceptions. Homogenization cannot exist in such a universe. Imitation is quintessentially imaginary, and therefore impossible. Imitation cannot be imitated. The inimitable is illimitable. The world of food. The world of fruit. The world of meat. The world of wheat and rice and fennel and mint and avocado.

    My fantasies extend outward toward other planets these days. Because this one is about to go tits up. Thursday, August 16, Moo. David Hume promulgated the idea that the fact of ourselves is only a bundle of things brought back from daily experience and patched together for a time. Selfhood is a potpourri of herbs gathered in the meadow of the quotidian. We teem with a collection of ideas and sensations that alter pattern like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope.

    Our time of birth, the culture into which we born, its period of history, our very species are all matters of happenstance. And oh yes, an afternoon spent with Dharma Bums , by Jack Kerouac. Roaring creeks and cataracts of language all upsidedown and strange. My head became juicy and my hand busy writing words of nothing, because nothing means nothing, and that adds up to nothingness, which is noumena front and center, and chipmunks and bears.

    Later, I learned that what I desire is not always good and that what I avoid is not always that bad. I used to make great sandwiches for work. One sandwich was composed of thin slices of corned beef or ham slathered with butter and adorned with lettuce and pickles for maximum juiciness. The other sandwich was all peanut butter and butter and strawberry jam. They were delicious and made the work day slightly more palatable. I see this now as a species of jurisprudence, or trying to keep my head on straight, which is a circulation of fluids, and a tongue for injecting or projecting liquids.

    And I go on scribbling poetry which is just fucking weird. Well, why not, as they say. Since the future is scary I spend a lot of time mulling the past. I picture John Fogerty sitting at a kitchen table working out the lyrics to songs in a seedy apartment. Seattle has become a city of sociopaths, narcissists and nail salons. But there are things you eke out of the present moment to make it pyrotechnic and less pustular.

    Light a candle and study the undulation of the flame. The scent. The melt of wax. Pain is an awakening. Emotional pain especially. What divining rod do you use to find reality? To find what is of value? I use pain. Sonatas of blood, the grammar of bones. Moo is the sound cows make and is the Japanese word for nothingness. I like to sit and listen to whatever sounds are out there. A blue jay, a crow, a power saw, someone hammering nails.

    My biggest worry is the loss of electricity and running water. The paper towels in the kitchen window. Who is this person I see every day looking back at me from the mirror? We live in an age of gigantic egos. We deploy them like dirigibles. I know that the catastrophic existential impacts of the 21 st century are unprecedented for our species. Sometimes a truffle can lighten your troubles. Narrative involves an ego.

    It expands into vineyards. Heat and Hollywood. Everything becomes silent before a storm. Hanging on till the next minute. As always. Worin des Lebens Wein, der Geist. Der Helden sich aufbewahrt. Words have a very specific meaning in German and are key to unlocking its essence. There are a number of online German to English dictionaries to help unravel the meaning of this deceptively simple poem. No matter how small of a word or what language is involved, each word has an evolution that corresponds to a particular range of perceptions and orientations and attitudes within the domain of human experience.

    It varies as all creative effort varies — not as consciously, perhaps, but none the less as truly as do the religions, the beliefs, the customs, and the arts of different peoples. A receptacle. Something that holds, that contains. Why holy? Because of the content, the substance though in this case more like an energy, a noumena of what it contains. Poets are holy because…why? What makes poets holy? The nature of their endeavor, which is one of transcendence, of attaining the sublime. The nature of their work, which is alchemical.

    The goal of the poet is to take the base ores of everyday experience and transmute them into gold. Into the giddy exhilaration of autonomous innovation. Poets are receivers. The cosmological energies that comprise the universe find a human voice among poets. Some of these energies are benign and some of these energies have a more destructive impulse. Violence and beauty do not uncommonly repulse one another.

    Au contraire. When Christ tore through the temple of the moneychangers he was behaving like a poet. Assholes who think strictly in terms of money and how rich they can make themselves no matter how many lives are capsized and made miserable in the process. The Bible got it right: you cannot both serve God and Mammon. Poets tend, as a rule, to be a little averse to the whole business of making money, though not entirely as a matter of principle. Writing poetry does very little to twist the combinatorial lock on the bank vault. The wealth poets are after is speculative, but not in the sense of finance.

    More in the sense of divinatory, conjectural, phantasmagoric. They can do without it, thank you very much. So why does anyone bother to write it? Good question. Everyone will have their own reason. My addiction began with Arthur Rimbaud. Pretty much the same phenomena as I was discussing above, with one important exception: all experience, even bad experience, serves the inventive mind of the poet. Much of life is shit. Loss, rejection, grief, frustration, fear, anxiety, despair, confusion, meaningless toil. Poets have a great knack for getting drunk.

    The way they feel about life is cosmic. This is where a translation of the German into English might trip up a bit. Geist also means ghost. Ghost, mind, and spirit are fused into the one word: geist. Important to keep that in mind. This is where things get really tricky. The poet is also a bit of a tragic figure, a bit like the fool of the Tarot cards. The poet conserves the sacred. This is what makes the poet extraordinary and heroic.

    This is particularly true of our current historical period. Humankind is in dire straits. Four hundred years or so of intense industrial and technological commerce have permanently destroyed the ecologies that human beings and countless other species require to live on this planet. If people become obsessed with these things, other more important things will be neglected. The chicken fillet was breaded very well and quite crunchy. Michael: Talking about this dish is easy. Think of it like a fried chicken pizza with an incredibly soft waffle as the pizza base.

    I have to linger on the waffle for a bit. All in all, I learned a lesson from it dough. You never see kim-chi coming, you just get to see it go.

    My Wasted Imagination:

    No son, you need friends that need to eat more. Never enough, never enough. That benedict tho…. Your email address will not be published. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Notify me of follow-up comments by email.