An old and quiet cover of Damien Rice's Delicate.
And a photo:
Jerusalem Syndrome
Humans are weird:
"There is an actual medical condition called Jerusalem Syndrome. Each year, it afflicts hundreds of people when they go to Israel and are so religiously moved that they become convinced God is speaking to them, and that they are the Messiah. There is a dedicated wing in the psychiatric ward at a hospital in Jerusalem that deals with these people. I met a psychiatrist who works there, and asked her what the treatment is.
"It is easiest if there is more than one patient in the clinic at a time," she told me. "The best way to snap them out of it is usually to introduce them to each other."
I love that image - the guy who is sure he's the Messiah meeting another guy who is sure he's the Messiah, and immediately going, "Oh. Well, that guy sounds crazy. Never mind."
- Kristin Newman, What I Was Doing While You Were Breeding
"For in politics, as in religion my tenets are few and simple. The leading one of which, and indeed that which embraces most others, is to be honest and just ourselves and to exact it from others, meddling as little as possible in their affairs where our own are not involved. If this maxim was generally adopted, wars would cease and our swords would soon be converted into reap hooks and our harvests be more peaceful, abundant, and happy."
George Washington
Pete Seeger
I made this a few years ago. It hung in my cube for quite a long time.
Wishing there were more Pete Seegers in the world.
Up Where The Air is Clear
I caught a bit of the This American Life broadcast last weekend where Jonathan Goldstein reads his short story about The Penguin (pre-Gotham) meeting Mary Poppins. It is absurd and hilarious.
Here's the first paragraph. Follow the link to keep reading. (DO IT!)
Before he ever moved to Gotham City, before he grew into the overweight, obsessive sad sack of his later years, the Penguin was a poet and a dandy who lived in London. He wrote complex villanelles and threw lavish dinner parties at which he only became more charming the more he drank. He wore a monocle, a top hat and carried an umbrella.
One evening, at one of his dinner parties after hours spent sipping absinthe, the Penguin ran up to the roof of his building, opened up his large, black umbrella and leaped off into the air. As he coasted to the ground, he hollered out lines from Blake, stuff about grabbing life by the fat of its stomach and giving it a twist. He was that crazy. He was that bursting with life.
Continue reading ...