30 June 2008

review: chuck palahniuk's snuff

Chuck Palahniuk's ninth and most recent novel, Snuff, is about an over-aged porn star (Cassie Wright) who plans to kill herself while filming World Whore Three: The Whore to End All Whores, a film in which she'll set a world record for having sex with 600 men in a single session. The story is told primarily from the perspective of three participants: Mr. 72, Mr. 137 and Mr. 600. Much of the tale is set in the film studio's basement, which is crawling with hundreds of men, each waiting for his turn, albeit brief, with Ms. Wright.

For Palahniuk's fans, the plot is par for the course: another tale that tackles another cultural taboo (with an unpredictable ending only Palahniuk could pen). For the uninitiated, however, Snuff may sound like an obscene novel as empty as the fictional pornographic film portrayed in the book. Unfortunately, the latter are mostly correct.

For the record, I am an avid fan -- and defender -- of Palahniuk's work, but when I finished the final word of the final sentence, I felt betrayed and thought, What? Is that it?

Despite Snuff's failures, Palahniuk's brilliant imagination, dark humor and unique writing style occasionally pierce through the seedy characters and money shots, but his brilliance is muffled by the fluff that consumes much of the novel.

Like his previous books, Palahniuk sheds light on the darkened lives of people we would rather shun than acknowledge and transforms them into compelling and very real people. Whether the character is a porn star (Snuff), a sex addict (Choke), or a disenfranchised yuppie (Fight Club), Palahniuk induces the reader to care and ultimately empathize with his protagonist.

However, unlike his previous works, the poignant and epiphanic sentences that strike the reader like holy gospel are mostly absent from Snuff and, apart from the novel's lurid subject matter, there is nothing remarkable about Palahniuk's latest effort.

Additionally, Snuff may alarm some of his loyal readers (affectionately known as members of "the Cult"). Palahniuk's last three novels (Haunted, Rant and Snuff) have all followed the same storytelling method: in lieu of a single narrator, the stories are relayed through several characters or witnesses. While this technique allows the reader to absorb the story three-dimensionally, it also leaves the reader to fill in the holes and wade through intermittent spaces of ambiguity.

Snuff isn't a bad book. It's just disappointing. Disappointing because Palahniuk has shown his fans what he's capable of and unfortunately, Snuff isn't up to snuff.

The novel should come with a warning label -- not for its graphic content but to sway potential Palahniuk readers from Snuff, because this work isn't a proper Palahniuk primer. For Chuck newbies, check out Choke (the film adaptation, which stars Sam Rockwell, Anjelica Houston and Kelly Macdonald, opens in limited release on 26 September 2008), Survivor and/or Lullaby.

Grade: C

xx

29 June 2008

spain reign in vienna

Spain won the Euro Championship 1-0 over Germany on Sunday for its second Euro title in 44 years. Fernando Torres scored in the 33rd minute and the Spaniards never backed down from the Germans.

Germany, who were favored to win the title entering the tournament, were plagued by inconsistent play throughout the tourney and failed to execute in the title match. Germany managed just four shots, only one of which was on goal, while Spain unleashed 14 shots, six landing on goal.

26 June 2008

late for low

"With music the object isn't to understand it or to quantize it; it's much more of a license to not have to put everything in order."
Low's Alan Sparhawk from You May Need a Murderer


When the Duluth, Minnesota band Low released Drums and Guns in 2007, I was immediately struck by the band's sparse, minimalist sound. I had heard of the band but not their music. I had no idea what my ears were missing.

Low has released eight albums since their birth in 1993 and are arguably one of America's most under-appreciated rock bands. Dutch filmmaker David Kleijwegt's short film You May Need a Murderer made me appreciate the band's contribution to American rock music. The film captures the band in their element: performing music. It also offers a very intimate look at Low's founding members -- and husband and wife -- Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker.

You May Need a Murderer is a compelling film regardless of the viewer's familiarity with the subject. You can view the film at Pitchfork.tv. Here's the link: You May Need a Murderer


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As I predicted in my previous post, Spain defeated Russia by three goals earlier today and will move on to battle Germany in the Euro 2008 Championship match this Sunday. Spain's 3-0 win came with a price, however. David Villa, the tournament's leading scorer, left the game with an injury in the 35th minute and will not play this Sunday.

My prediction: The significance of Villa's absence cannot be overstated and the Spaniards will find themselves one capable striker short of their second Euro title. Germany wins a record fourth UEFA Euro Championship in a nail-biter of a finale, 2-1.

xx

25 June 2008

brighter

Since Monday's conversation with sister, the darkened corners of my mind have been getting brighter. Thoughts are more lucid ... the anxiety that pervades virtually every second of every day is dissipating. I realize, of course, that "the fear," like a creeping fog, can materialize and enshroud me at any time.

But I'm not thinking about that right now. I'm about to watch Turkey battle Germany in the Euro 2008 semi-finals. My prediction: the heavily favored Germans will win -- but not without a fight. Final score: Germany 3, Turkey 1.

xx

[][][][][][][][][][] U P D A T E [][][][][][][][][][]

Wow. What a game. Turkey's Semih Senturk tied the game in the 86th minute -- a goal most of the world didn't see thanks to a lightning strike that interrupted the international TV feed (the telecast was plagued by outages). Four minutes later, Germany's Philipp Lahm ended Turkey's storybook run with a beautiful give-and-go goal (Thomas Hitzlsperger with the assist). Final score: Germany 3, Turkey 2.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow's semi-final match, Russia versus Spain. I expect Spain to dominate the Russians and win 4-1. The winner will meet Germany on Sunday and play for the Euro 2008 Championship in Vienna, Austria.

thirty-six (approximately)

In the dark I'm chain smoking cigarettes with a head corrupted by whiskey. The screen of a computer monitor illuminates vowels, consonants, numbers, symbols and fingers. I'll attempt to summarize the last 36 hours (approximately).

Monday evening: I'm home after eight hours of work. My heart is racing. My head is a mess, drowning in thoughts of sadness, loss and self-termination. And this goddamn apartment is too quiet. I'm pacing. I need to reach out and speak ... share my thoughts ... release the pressure. Desperation blossoms tears. I pick up the phone and the flatlined dial tone fills my right ear. Unsteady fingers dial sister's telephone number. And I'm waiting. Waiting for an answer. A reception. Sister answers.

Fragments of the phone call:

"What's wrong?"

"... If anything were to happen to me, would you be OK?" (I never believed I would have the courage ... No, the audacity to ask such a question.)

She begins to cry.

I've been crying.

...

"I don't want to grow up without you ..."

I don't mention the gun.

"I want you to be part of [your nephew's] life. You're his only uncle."

"I know. I know."

More tears.

...

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid. Promise me."

I could lie. I could make such a promise to her, but I cannot lie ... not to sister ... no.

...

"Promise me this won't be the last time I talk to you."

"I promise."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

...

I love yous and goodbyes.

-------------------------------------------

Tuesday afternoon: I'm at work and my cell phone rings but I'm unable to answer. I check my phone moments later and find missed calls from mother and sister. Voicemails expressing grave concern. I call sister and explain my absent answers.

"I couldn't answer my phone because I'm teaching a class. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you.

"How are you feeling? Is everything OK?"

"Yes, I'm feeling better ... things are better. Everything is OK."

"I told mom about our conversation yesterday. I know I promised you I wouldn't tell her but ... I had to. You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No. I understand. I'm not upset at you, OK?"

...

-------------------------------------------

Tuesday evening: Mother calls me and asks if everything is all right. I assure her I'm in better spirits. She then proceeds to chastise me for not taking my medication (information I had shared with sister during Monday's conversation). I give her a litany of reasons why I've ceased taking the medication ... medication I haven't consumed for several months, a year perhaps. None of my explanations satisfy her.

"This isn't the type of conversation I wanted to have with you, mother."

...

Sobbing, she says, "I don't know what I would do without you, son. I love you so much."

"I know ... I know. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

...

I love yous and goodbyes.

Don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry ...

xx

23 June 2008

thanks, george

The below image was taken from GeorgeCarlin.com

out of control

Everything seemingly is spinning out of control

By ALAN FRAM and EILEEN PUTMAN, Associated Press
Jun 21, 3:14 PM ET


Is everything spinning out of control?

Midwestern levees are bursting. Polar bears are adrift. Gas prices are skyrocketing. Home values are abysmal. Air fares, college tuition and health care border on unaffordable. Wars without end rage in Iraq, Afghanistan and against terrorism.

Horatio Alger, twist in your grave.

The can-do, bootstrap approach embedded in the American psyche is under assault. Eroding it is a dour powerlessness that is chipping away at the country's sturdy conviction that destiny can be commanded with sheer courage and perseverance.

The sense of helplessness is even reflected in this year's presidential election. Each contender offers a sense of order — and hope. Republican John McCain promises an experienced hand in a frightening time. Democrat Barack Obama promises bright and shiny change, and his large crowds believe his exhortation, "Yes, we can."

Even so, a battered public seems discouraged by the onslaught of dispiriting things. An Associated Press-Ipsos poll says a barrel-scraping 17 percent of people surveyed believe the country is moving in the right direction. That is the lowest reading since the survey began in 2003.

An ABC News-Washington Post survey put that figure at 14 percent, tying the low in more than three decades of taking soundings on the national mood.

"It is pretty scary," said Charles Truxal, 64, a retired corporate manager in Rochester, Minn. "People are thinking things are going to get better, and they haven't been. And then you go hide in your basement because tornadoes are coming through. If you think about things, you have very little power to make it change."

Recent natural disasters around the world dwarf anything afflicting the U.S. Consider that more than 69,000 people died in the China earthquake, and that 78,000 were killed and 56,000 missing from the Myanmar cyclone.

Americans need do no more than check the weather, look in their wallets or turn on the news for their daily reality check on a world gone haywire.

Floods engulf Midwestern river towns. Is it global warming, the gradual degradation of a planet's weather that man seems powerless to stop or just a freakish late-spring deluge?

It hardly matters to those in the path. Just ask the people of New Orleans who survived Hurricane Katrina. They are living in a city where, 1,000 days after the storm, entire neighborhoods remain abandoned, a national embarrassment that evokes disbelief from visitors.

Food is becoming scarcer and more expensive on a worldwide scale, due to increased consumption in growing countries such as China and India and rising fuel costs. That can-do solution to energy needs — turning corn into fuel — is sapping fields of plenty once devoted to crops that people need to eat. Shortages have sparked riots. In the U.S., rice prices tripled and some stores rationed the staple.

Residents of the nation's capital and its suburbs repeatedly lose power for extended periods as mere thunderstorms rumble through. In California, leaders warn people to use less water in the unrelenting drought.

Want to get away from it all? The weak U.S. dollar makes travel abroad forbiddingly expensive. To add insult to injury, some airlines now charge to check luggage.

Want to escape on the couch? A writers' strike halted favorite TV shows for half a season. The newspaper on the table may soon be a relic of the Internet age. Just as video stores are falling by the wayside as people get their movies online or in the mail.

But there's always sports, right?

The moorings seem to be coming loose here, too.

Baseball stars Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens stand accused of enhancing their heroics with drugs. Basketball referees are suspected of cheating.

Stay tuned for less than pristine tales from the drug-addled Tour de France and who knows what from the Summer Olympics.

It's not the first time Americans have felt a loss of control.

Alger, the dime-novel author whose heroes overcame adversity to gain riches and fame, played to similar anxieties when the U.S. was becoming an industrial society in the late 1800s.

American University historian Allan J. Lichtman notes that the U.S. has endured comparable periods and worse, including the economic stagflation (stagnant growth combined with inflation) and Iran hostage crisis of 1980; the dawn of the Cold War, the Korean War and the hysterical hunts for domestic Communists in the late 1940s and early 1950s; and the Depression of the 1930s.

"All those periods were followed by much more optimistic periods in which the American people had their confidence restored," he said. "Of course, that doesn't mean it will happen again."

Each period also was followed by a change in the party controlling the White House.

This period has seen intense interest in the presidential primaries, especially the Democrats' five-month duel between Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton. Records were shattered by voters showing up at polling places, yearning for a voice in who will next guide the country as it confronts the uncontrollable.

Never mind that their views of their current leaders are near rock bottom, reflecting a frustration with Washington's inability to solve anything. President Bush barely gets the approval of three in 10 people, and it's even worse for the Democratic-led Congress.

Why the vulnerability? After all, this is the 21st century, not a more primitive past when little in life was assured. Surely people know how to fix problems now.

Maybe. And maybe this is what the 21st century will be about — a great unraveling of some things long taken for granted.

morning of monday

It's Monday morning and, like Sunday morning, I awoke with an unfounded sense of optimism. I'm hopeful today won't unravel as Sunday did.

JRo failed to visit me. Yesterday he called and left a message stating that while he wouldn't be able to see me, there were some things he wanted to discuss. His phone call and potential visit weren't coincidental -- he was seeking to talk me down, pull me from the ledge and ease my ... my malaise. But I would deny deny deny. Compartmentalize the pieces of my identity that long for peace and erasure. An end.

Throughout the years I've perfected the art of compartmentalization -- I'll become what you desire. I'll flash a smile and eject a laugh from the shallow pit of my belly. "What? No ... no ... everything is fine." Revealing my true self and addressing the cancerous urges that cling to my soul is very difficult, because when I open the wounds to another person I'm also opening those wounds to myself. My tongue turns numb. Words fail. So I turn away. Deny. It's much easier to become the person my friends and family wish to see. Wear the mask and play the role I've taught myself.

xx

"How to Fight Loneliness" by Wilco

How to fight loneliness
Smile all the time
Shine your teeth 'til meaningless
Sharpen them with lies

And whatever's going down
Will follow you around
That's how you fight loneliness
You laugh at every joke
Drag your blanket blindly
Fill your heart with smoke
And the first thing that you want
Will be the last thing you ever need
That's how you fight it

Just smile all the time
Just smile all the time
Just smile all the time
Just smile ...

21 June 2008

entry #409

Today: Phone calls (which I didn't answer), e-mails and text messages. Communications from close friends. Communications from lost friends. Some of the messages were intentionally ambiguous and cryptic while others bluntly addressed my previous post.

The water is rising and I feel trapped, but this is the price I pay for posting the thoughts that have been consuming my weary mind. I know the messengers mean well and their intentions are pure: they're seeking to save me ... from myself. And I suppose we all seek to become someone's personal Jesus. A messiah clad in street clothes bearing a message of hope. A modern day savior longing to rescue the weak and rejuvenate their senses with the optimism of tomorrow. Resuscitate. Rebuild. Resurrect.

Is it possible to salvage he who has embraced peace vis-à-vis death? How do you confront such a desolate soul? And how does this soul respond to the antithesis of his essence?

If only I could disintegrate slowly ... a fading radio signal that steadily degenerates into static. Indecipherable. Gone. Underneath everything.

According to his message, JRo, whom I haven't seen in many months, plans to visit me on Sunday. The water is rising. The closing in. I'll be forced to confront my feelings and thoughts outside of myself ...

xx

What Denny says is that maybe the second coming of Christ isn't something God will decide. Maybe God left it up to people to develop the ability to bring back Christ into their lives. Maybe God wanted us to invent our own savior when we were ready. When we need it most. Denny says maybe it's up to us to create our own messiah.

To save ourselves.

Choke by Chuck Palahniuk

19 June 2008

entry #408

Shit. The last several days ... weeks have been shit.

And I'm getting closer. It's getting closer.

At work this week I've been training new drivers. Preparing them for their upcoming CDL test. Every six months it's rinse and repeat. New faces. Same material.

"Check the tires. There must be at least 4/32" tread depth in every major groove on the front tires and 2/32" for the rear tires." And so on and so forth.

"Inspect the slack adjuster for broken, loose or missing parts. When pulled by hand the brake rod should not move more than approximately one inch." And so on and so forth.

"Signal your intentions."

"Communicate your presence."

"Spotting potential hazards."

"Always have a plan."

"Accident procedures."

"Care for the injured."

"Control."

"Inspect."

"Prepare."

"One mistake could cost the lives of many ... including yours."

And so on and so forth.

A lapse of judgment could silence your very existence. In a car. On a bus. Crossing the street. Peddling up a hill.

"Oh sh--!"

And you're gone.

In a running car inside a closed garage. In your bedroom surrounded by various pharmaceuticals. Standing on the sixth story ledge of a parking garage. In a deserted field with a packed pistol.

This isn't a tragic accident. There is no element of surprise. Only silent resignation.

You ponder how people will react to the news. Your family. Your friends. Coworkers. Elementary school classmates. The people -- practically strangers -- who know you only as "that one guy."

You think about the destiny of your journals. The ticket stubs from past concerts. The books. The records, the CDs and DVDs. Shoes. The furniture. Possessions that, in a matter of moments, will belong to no one.

You wonder about your inbox. Your mailbox. Voicemail. The electric bill. The spam. Electronic messages of concern. A voice recorded electronically says, "____, are you there? We're really worried about you. Please call me as soon as you get this so we'll know you're OK. Please call."

You don't want to become a traumatic memory forever embedded in someone's mind, but someone will discover you. And it will be messy. Shiny tissue. The material that belongs inside. Under flesh and bone. You hope your family won't be robbed of an open casket funeral. A final goodbye to a body that cannot respond.

"Communicate your presence."

"Prepare."

"Control."

You look heavenward.

"Signal your intentions."

...

And it's over.

The stereo plays the same song over and over and ...

The wind whips the leaves and invites itself inside through your open window.

A sparrow sings.

And you are silent. Still.

xx

14 June 2008

apologies (two)

I'm unsure if MK still visits this blog. If she does not then a great deal of this post will have been written in vain, floating somewhere in cyberspace; alternatively, if she does read the following words I hope any animosity or ill will will be put to rest.

MK, I'm so sorry for my lack of judgement. I know our interaction, albeit brief, occurred well over a year ago, but I'm still disturbed, and, if I'm honest with myself, haunted by what transpired between us.

My desperation ... My need for the love, the attention, the admiration of the opposite sex wouldn't allow me to grasp the gravity of your circumstance and the harm my selfish desires were causing within your relationship. This is not to say I didn't care about you. I did. Very much so. And considering the true nature of your situation, I cared about you too much.

(I wish I could say that you've become a distant memory, something cataloged deep within the depths of my mind ... something colored with a degree of indifference. But such is not the case. I still think about you [more than I care to admit], but certain people, certain experiences remain and roam the corridors of one's mind -- a ghost, a force, a spirit that refuses exorcism.)

I also want to apologize for failing to respond to the e-mail you sent several months ago. My shame and guilt prevented me from responding; I wasn't even sure if a response was needed -- I did not want to add insult to injury.

Regardless, I sincerely hope you are happy and I wish you and your young family the best.

To Lisa: It's difficult to find the words to address you. Our friendship and relationship were very harmful to you and me. I wish I could explain why and how such toxicity developed between us. But I cannot.

All you wanted was a deep and meaningful relationship with me but I ... didn't? Perhaps I did but, for reasons unknown, I wouldn't allow such a thing to blossom. I cannot honestly offer a cause for our disintegration. And if I could, what difference would it make? I can, however, tell you that you are free from blame. There is nothing you could have done to alter the outcome of our relationship.

I hate myself for even addressing you in this post. Your final text message was inexcusable however true your words were. But I'm obligated to give you -- someone who expended a tremendous amount of patience and mental strength -- something: an apology, an explanation, a goodbye, something to bury the bitterness and failure.

I'm sorry this fuck-up disappointed you.

I'm sorry this fuck-up broke your heart so many times.

I hope you find that which has eluded you. Perhaps you have discovered that feeling, that person who can comfort you. The touch. The words. Love. A sense of belonging. Peace.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

All I have are my words, my thoughts. Everything else is a relic. A fossilized testament of the past. An experience never to be realized again. A kiss. An embrace. The simple yet fleeting feeling of touch. Desire. Sensations which cannot be revived, for the brutality of time has taken them from me. Out of reach. A distant constellation. A bitter reminder of a moment ... a segment of time and space.

Gone.

Forever.

xx

13 June 2008

a first

Despite my current financial situation, I -- for the first time in my life -- made a monetary contribution to a political campaign. I donated $50 to Barack Obama's presidential campaign, and I hope to make further contributions in the coming months.

If you are a supporter of Barack Obama, put your money where your mouth is AND DONATE! If you choose to donate (regardless of the amount, every dollar helps!), this is the perfect time: Every donation made will be matched by a fellow supporter. You will receive the name and hometown of the individual who matched your donation, and, if you choose, you can send him or her a personal message about why you have chosen to take action and help CHANGE the direction of this country.

Photobucket


10 June 2008

a response (of sorts)

There's no spark / No light in the dark / It gets you down / It gets you down / You've traveled far / What have you found? / That there's no time / There's no time / To analyse / To think things through / To make sense
-Thom Yorke "Analyse"


During the past two days I have pondered D's comments regarding my last post, "three and zero." I've attempted to formulate a coherent response, something that will clarify and adequately express my point of view, my "philosophy."

I can't.

I suppose everyone tries to justify their actions, their thoughts, their very existence. I try but the more I analyze myself the more I lose myself.

"Then stop analyzing yourself and just be."

I can cease the endless self-examination, but I can't escape from myself.

Regardless, I analyze the remnants of my mind, hoping to discover something that will ease this ... this burden. But the pieces are strewn over a vast space. The fragments are like shards of a mirror, but when I look into the slivers I don't see myself in my present state. I see moments, frozen. I see the innocent child I once was ... I see the man I used to be. I ... I recognize the face, but the identity ... the essence ... the self is gone, unrecognizable.

When I visited mother, father, sister and nephew last month, they seemed so distant. Nearly strangers. Mother wore the face of a frayed and fraught woman. There was an unmistakable resentment between sister and father. And nephew's obliviousness was beautiful. While I looked into their eyes I felt as if I had been forgotten ... left behind ... a ghost clinging to a life long since expired.

I don't know ...

(D, I appreciate your comments. You raised some issues that I need to address and I hope to provide a better and more eloquent response in the near future.)

xx

An amazing live performance of "Analyse" by Thom Yorke

06 June 2008

three and zero

More words coming soon . . . I'm going for a drive . . . Rain is pouring, thunder is shaking and lightning is flickering like busted neon signs.

Oh, and today is my 30th birthday.

More . . .














According to the calendar today is my 30th birthday. When most people reach this age, I suppose they reflect on their personal history. Their past. Their life. I'm not. My life's reflection is constant. I do not need another meaningless birthday to remind me of the failed connections, the lost moments.

I'm going nowhere along with everyone else.

The difference between me and them is I see the glaring reality of human existence. I've seen the figure, naked and shameless. The crevices. The scars. The birthmarks. The strands of hair. The crooked teeth. The bones and flesh.

I've also seen the figure clothed and masked. The designer fabrics and styled hair. The reconstructed faces. Larger breasts. Longer stamina. The pursuit of perfection. The god complex.

I've seen the figures of vanity blissfully drowning in the tides of symbolism and sexuality. I've seen the figure distract itself from that glaring reality.

Few will accept the notion that their life is void of reason, void of purpose. Fewer will embrace this fact, and those that do stumble through a world of hollow monuments and false pretenses. It's difficult to retreat from this blinding truth and bathe in the putrid waters of oblivion.

To the believers of the divine, to those who search for the equation of life's purpose and to the agnostic and indifferent I ask this: Do you prefer to believe the magician's act of wondrous magic and mysterious sorcery? Or can you accept that his spectacular show is built on illusions and slight of hand?

We all want to believe in god. In miracles. Purpose. Reason. Love.

A house cannot build itself -- it takes the strength of many men to erect such a structure. And most would agree that life cannot be lived without the belief of god, of purpose, of reason, of love -- myths that man has assembled and shaped centuries ago. And in this age of mental illness and medication, the skeptic can easily conclude that the bible is full of undiagnosed schizophrenics and users of hallucinogenic compounds.


If you're not a believer of such holy texts you may still maintain that life has meaning. It has to. This rationale exists because your consciousness won't allow you to believe otherwise. Consciousness: man's greatest gift. Consciousness: man's greatest curse. Consciousness: evolution's death knell.

We all wish to live in the Technicolor world of Oz. A world of magic. Mystery. Wonder. Love. A world in which we search for the heart, the strength, the courage to persevere and thrive. Attain something greater than ourselves. But in the distance, in the shadows of your cluttered mind lies a curtain. The curtain of disillusionment. Do you dare peel back that curtain? Can you? Or are you afraid of what lurks behind the drapery?

"There's no place like home."

"There's no place like home."

There's no safety like the security of disillusionment.

xx

04 June 2008

finally (for real this time)

After demonstrating the class and grace of a two-bit politician Tuesday night, Hillary Clinton will concede this Friday according to ABC News.

You can find the complete story H E R E.