Ms. Heyse, on the other hand, said the legal bar for defending the state’s marriage law and upholding the people’s will was low: She simply had to show “any conceivable basis” for a reasonable person to support it.
“Isn’t it rational to believe it’s a good thing for a child to have a mom and a dad?” she added.
At times, the eight days of testimony resembled a droning college seminar in statistical methodology.
Koko was much bigger than Mister Rogers. She weighed 280 pounds, and Mister Rogers weighed 143. Koko weighed 280 pounds because she is a gorilla, and Mister Rogers weighed 143 pounds because he has weighed 143 pounds as long as he has been Mister Rogers, because once upon a time, around thirty-one years ago, Mister Rogers stepped on a scale, and the scale told him that Mister Rogers weighs 143 pounds. No, not that he weighed 143 pounds, but that he weighs 143 pounds…. And so, every day, Mister Rogers refuses to do anything that would make his weight change—he neither drinks, nor smokes, nor eats flesh of any kind, nor goes to bed late at night, nor sleeps late in the morning, nor even watches television—and every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him that he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says, “the number 143 means ‘I love you.’ It takes one letter to say ‘I’ and four letters to say ‘love’ and three letters to say ‘you.’ One hundred and forty-three. ‘I love you.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”
1) It has to be in everything you do. You have to think about who you are, and who you want to be, and what you want to be about, and you have to put that into practice and you have to sew it through each and every thing you do, you have to find the cracks in your life and fill them with this thing that you want to be.
2) You have to look at what you do. You have to look at the cracks in your life and see how you have filled them, you have to look at each and every thing that you do. This, I submit, this is who you are.
Try it with equal parts of Bailey’s Irish Cream either shaken over ice or added to your coffee for a delicious creamy treat. Or whip up what we used to call the “Lover’s Cocktail”… Vodka (3 parts), Drambuie (2 parts), Triple Sec (1 part), with a dash of bitters.
currently drinking the second cocktail listed here and it’s p. dang tasty
every mr rogers clip is worth watching but some are not quite so mr rogers as this one, there is fish feeding and there is ”I’d just like to say something to you through a song.” and then It’s You I Like and then realtalk re: kindness and finally, of course, It’s Such a Good Feeling to Know You’re Alive, and then he’s got some crown kind of thing that he wraps around his wrist and mentions that he likes being with you, and it’s all just too much and he’s the rawest man to have ever lived and he’s just
One activist disdained the practice of charging extra for chips and salsa, for instance, as an anti-Mexican symptom of gentrification. Some taquerias also offer additional types of flour tortillas (for instance, whole wheat or spinach), but this same activist declared, “I will shoot my son and daughter if they ever order a green burrito.”
Friends! I am running an experiment as part of some course work, and is with nearly all experiments the more participants I get the better. It’s online, it takes less than 5 minutes. Help a fellow out?
Alternately, if you reblogged this (or spread the link however you like, really) you would both be extra helpful *and* lend me a talking point in arguing for the superiority of tumblr, and if you did that well I would just be grateful as h*ck.
She continued, “In my mind I keep saying, ‘Had he not spoke back, spoke up, would he still be here?’ I don’t know. But I do know that Jordan was Jordan to the end. I think Jordan was defending his friends. ‘We’re not bothering you. We don’t know you. You don’t know us. Why can’t we play our music as loud as we want?’”
I told her that I was stunned by her grace after the verdict. I told her the verdict greatly angered me. I told her that the idea that someone on that jury thought it plausible there was a gun in the car baffled me. I told her it was appalling to consider the upshot of the verdict—had Michael Dunn simply stopped shooting and only fired the shots that killed Jordan Davis, he might be free today.
She said, “It baffles our mind too. Don’t think that we aren’t angry. Don’t think that I am not angry. Forgiving Michael Dunn doesn’t negate what I’m feeling and my anger. And I am allowed to feel that way. But more than that I have a responsibility to God to walk the path He’s laid. In spite of my anger, and my fear that we won’t get the verdict that we want, I am still called by the God I serve to walk this out.”
The number of lawsuits that involve paddling gone wrong, or branding that necessitated skin grafts, or a particular variety of sexual torture reserved for hazing and best not described in the gentle pages of this magazine, is astounding.
I rarely note “this is the life you chose” except when I am angry and frustrated so I would like to note I am playing Magic: The Gathering on a 70 degree Friday afternoon, and this remains the life that I chose.
You are sitting in a leather club chair in the middle of an otherwise spare room. You are home early from the office, having feigned a headache worse than the one you really do have. You are drinking a beer, watching the local news anchor read. Her name is Wendy Something, and you have a crush on her. You moved here only months ago - from Cedar Falls, from Monroe or Meridian, from Canton, from Grand Forks, Eau Claire - and you have yet to make friends. The weekly drink with co-workers has drifted into a less occasional gathering, then none at all, as you’ve gradually discovered you have little in common, and you get along well at work anyway, so why even bother? People are hard to get to know out here, inside their bubbles, with their benign, almost tender indifference to you and their studious gestures of intimacy - the banter that is devoid of subtext and the How-are-you! that is never a question and the See-you-later! that simply signals the end of conversation. It has been lonely. You come home in the evenings and eat a take-out burrito over the kitchen sink and stroll through your half-furnished rooms, with books in alphabetized stacks on the floor and unpacked boxes as end tables and nothing on the walls. You have pondered this metaphor for an unfinished life - or better, the beginning of a new one - and you remind yourself why you moved here, why everyone moves here. And you may be lonely like this forever, but out here it at least feels transitory - a step on a journey, a blip on a timeline, and all that.
That is from Daniel Orozco’s “Shakers" and it has not been my experience in California but it is not hard to see how it could have been, and I am grateful for that and believe it is good to keep these things in mind sometimes.
if in that moment / it is clear that in our entire, graceless rage / it is what we have, and all along, / most yearned for, / then let us be spared by that which has the power to spare us / the knowledge that it is too late / to disclaim anger, find the will / for love and tenderness, beg / for pardon
again and again and again
John Engels, “For the lately dead” The Kenyon Review, Autumn 1984. (via sorryeveryone)
A Rusty Nail is made by mixing Drambuie and Scotch. Many prefer less Drambuie to decrease the sweetness of the drink. Scotch has a fairly biting and hot taste that is counterbalanced by the honeyed, herbal overtones of the Drambuie. A Rusty Nail can be served in an old-fashioned glass on the rocks, neat, or “up” in a stemmed glass. It is most commonly served over ice. A Rusty Nail served without ice is sometimes called a Straight Up Nail. The Canadian version of this drink is called a “Donald Sutherland” and substitutes rye whiskey for Scotch.
so I don’t think wikipedia says this anymore but in any event it is happening and friends it is tasty as h*ck