Here’s the way to end the year! A vivid and fucked up dream. I’m the US Ambassador to Estonia and all is going fine until their president becomes obsessed with forming an old-school pre-World Wars full on defensive military alliance with the US. I have to go to the palace to break it to him […]
About a year ago, I discovered Slavery Footprint, which tracks the “virtual” slaves behind our posh lives here in the world’s last, great empire. Because I’m a Luddite who wears the same clothes for 20 years (or until they fall to pieces like some sort of lunatic castaway leaping around on the shore of an […]
I try not to wade into politics. The whole thing is exhausting… But I’ll go ahead and cash in on the election fever so GS will get more hits and my five followers will stop asking me when the next update is going to be.
Since I now only write articles so that I can keep the GS Kindle subscription active and, therefore, make my precious $3 a month from subscribers who mistakenly think this is a porn site for some reason, I should probably angle towards more light-hearted fare.
Silver Spring’s historic dive bar, the Quarry House, is dead. What it used to be, that is. The old Quarry House. It’s taken me six years or so to come to grips with this.
My grandfather was the family patriarch for many years, holding court and always dreaming of returning to the family seat in Parkersburg, WV, which he fled after World War II in the years when New America was born.
This is how they say it happened. My father started methodically. Calmly. Then, in the midnight darkness of the candy room, where vast copper pots of caramel and chocolate lay covered waiting for the morning shift workers, something went wrong. He started to rush. We have a witness from the end of the night. […]
During the week, I work for a membership-based organization catering to healthcare professionals. (Words we use loosely.) It’s what I refer to as my “day job” whenever I’m asked the difficult question “what do you do?” and find myself describing my six very different jobs.
“Okay,” I told James as he flooded the engine of his Triumph Spitfire which, despite years of neglect, was in remarkably reliable condition. Somewhat. He beat his head on the steering wheel and screamed. I continued. “We do have a purpose today.” “What purpose?” he muttered, head against the wheel, hands on the cracked dashboard. […]