No Thrones. No Crowns. No Kings. →
On October 18, millions of us are rising again to show the world: America has no kings, and the power belongs to the people.
The unsupported use case of Bix Frankonis’ disordered, surplus, mediocre midlife in St. Johns, Oregon—now with climate crisis, rising fascism, increasing disability, eventual poverty, and inevitable death.
Read the current manifesto. (And the followup.)
Rules: no fear, no hate, no thoughtless bullshit, and no nazis.
On October 18, millions of us are rising again to show the world: America has no kings, and the power belongs to the people.
Of all the people in the world, the best and the worst are drawn to a dead dog, and most turn away. Only those with the purest of heart can feel its pain—and somewhere in between, the rest of us struggle.
Several days ago Claire Willett noted that among the elite their elite “status cuts across all other demographic and ideological markers”, adding that the elite versus the rabble “is so much more important to them as a line of demarcation than any vector of ideology or belief or politics”. All of which, of course, was prompted by the mainstream hagiographic response to the death of a nazi.
Somewhat to be expected when you repopulate your RSS reader with blogs after months of abstaining from attention paid to the blogosphere, as the links come in you end up reading a lot of blog posts about blogging, because whatever else this, that, or the other blogger posts about they’re nearly always also t some point blogging about blogging.
The first thing that struck me about this research on gender was the person who supplied her gender as “meh”, because I once toyed with listing my pronouns as “meh/meh” but I was afraid people would misconstrue it as a pointed, wrongheaded criticism of providing your pronouns.
It’s 2003 and you’re coming up on the end of your first full year of “stand-alone journalism”, doing independent reporting and commentary on Portland entirely by blog. You’re visiting an independent bookstore run out of a church in South Portland, where friends of yours work. It has a particular focus on Western Americana, and while wandering those particular stacks you spot a plain, unassuming spine: green cloth, gold embossed lettering: “THE FINGER” and “OCT. 9, 1942 - JAN 3, 1944”.