As of November 6, 2013, a total of 536 people from 38 countries have gone into space according to the FAI guideline (543 people have qualified when including the US Department of Defense classification). Of the 536, three people completed only a sub-orbital flight, 533 people reached Earth orbit, 24 traveled beyond low Earth orbit and 12 walked on the Moon.
If liberals are so fucking smart, how come they lose so god damn always?
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot, Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off Before it has a chance to go two blocks, At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth’s Garage Is on the corner facing west, and there, Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out. Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps— Five on a side, the old bubble-head style, Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low. One’s nostrils are two S’s, and his eyes An E and O. And one is squat, without A head at all—more of a football type. Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards. He was good: in fact, the best. In ’46 He bucketed three hundred ninety points, A county record still. The ball loved Flick. I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty In one home game. His hands were like wild birds. He never learned a trade, he just sells gas, Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while, As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube, But most of us remember anyway. His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench. It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though. Off work, he hangs around Mae’s Luncheonette. Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball, Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates. Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
It's the Second Law of Thermodynamics: sooner or later everything turns to shit.
I'm going to rock for you today.
"Miss Jean Louise," kindly Reverend Sykes gently admonishes. "Jean Louise, stand up. Your father's passing."
I think...we’re the hypocrites, not the Bakers; because we’re all broken, every single one of us, and yet we pretend that we’re not. We all live lives of imperfection and yet we cling to this fantasy that there’s this perfect life and that our leaders should embody it. But if we expect our leaders to live on some higher moral plain than the rest of us, well we’re just asking to be deceived.
“What’s your name?" he asked.
"Wendy Moira Angela Darling."
There's an old saying: "Fortune favors the bold." Well - I guess we're about to find out.
16. My adopted father
Compassion. Unwavering adherence to decisions, once he'd reached them. Indifference to superficial honors. Hard work. Persistence.
Listening to anyone who could contribute to the public good.
His dogged determination to treat people as they deserved.
A sense of when to push and when to back off.
Putting a stop to the pursuit of boys.
His altruism. Not expecting his friends to keep him entertained at dinner or to travel with him (unless they wanted to). And anyone who had to stay behind to take care of something always found him the same when he returned.
His searching questions at meetings. A kind of single-mindedness, almost, never content with first impressions, or breaking off the discussion prematurely.
Self-reliance, always. And laughter.
And his advance planning and his discreet attention to even minor things.
His restrictions on acclamations-and all attempts to flatter him.
His constant devotion to the empire's needs. His stewardship of the treasury. His willingness to take responsibility-and blame-for both.
His attitude to the gods: no superstitiousness. And his attitude to men: no demagoguery, no currying favor, no pandering. Always sober, always steady, and never vulgar or a prey to fads.
...
His respect for people who practiced philosophy-at least, those who were sincere about it. But without denigrating the others-or listening to them.
...
That he had so few secrets-only state secrets, in fact, and not all that many of those.
...
He never exhibited rudeness, lost control of himself, or turned violent. No one ever saw him sweat. Everything was to be approached logically and with due consideration, with no loose ends.
You could have said of him (as they say of Socrates) that he knew how to enjoy and abstain from things that most people find it hard to abstain from and all too easy to enjoy. Strength, perseverance, self-control in both areas: the mark of a soul in readiness-indomitable.
emperor marcus aurelius of rome never meant for his personal journal to be published, let alone seen by anyone after his death. luckily for all, it was. what is left behind is a window into the mind of one of the most powerful men in history; and more interesting still, the closest historic example to a would be philosopher-king.
in book 1 of his "meditations", marcus aurelius lists all the people he is thankful for and those traits admires in them. the longest reflection belongs solely to his adoptive father, the previous emperor. (much longer than he devoted to the gods themselves).
something to personally strive for.
"He was your superior, wasn't he?"
"No, he was my boss."
A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.
A statistician drowned crossing a river that was only three feet deep on average.
the academy awards have always been controversial. films some consider worthy are snubbed, while others considered less so are lathered with praise. there is always on hand acolyte and detractors.
but there is one movie which i suggest should not have won any oscar ever: the 1948 film, "Bill and Coo."
"Bill and Coo", was a movie about birds, played by real birds, who live in a bird-circus like world (the town of "Chirpendale"). their antagonist was a crow, played by a crow.
the birds do not have speaking roles. the birds aren't interesting. they are just...birds. granted they were on little bird sized props, that's kind of cool. i guess.
so mind-blowing was this in 1948 that the film was awarded an honorary academy award for "artistry and patience blended in a novel and entertaining use of the medium of motion pictures."
stranger still, the Oscar was given before the film premiered. that is how pumped your ancestors in 1948 were to see this schlock.
and schlock it is, dear reader.
So this is how liberty dies... with thunderous applause.
The world is a fine place and worth fighting for and I hate very much to leave it.
Had I not been Alexander, I should have liked to be Diogenes.
Had I not been Diogenese, I too would have liked to be Diogenese.
When [Alexander the Great] also in the Isthmus he met Diogenes [the philosopher] of Sinope, lying in the sun, standing near him with his shield-bearing guards and foot Companions, he asked if he wanted anything.
But Diogenes said that he wanted nothing else, except that he and his attendants would stand out of the sun light.
As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.
"How's that working out for you?"
"What?"
"Being clever."
"Great."
"Keep it up then."
Will robots inherit the earth?
Yes, but they will be our children.
sidenote: mexico was the lone country to protest nazi germany's annexation of austria (the infamous "anschluss"), which is why this curiosity exists in the main park of vienna.
At no time, therefore, hadst Thou not made anything, because Thou hadst made time itself. And no times are co-eternal with Thee, because Thou remainest for ever; but should these continue, they would not be times. For what is time? Who can easily and briefly explain it? Who even in thought can comprehend it, even to the pronouncing of a word concerning it? But what in speaking do we refer to more familiarly and knowingly than time? And certainly we understand when we speak of it; we understand also when we hear it spoken of by another.
What, then, is time? If no one ask of me, I know; if I wish to explain to him who asks, I know not.
i would like to to write more on the concept of time as it relates to physics and thermodynamics. but i don't know where to begin writing.
for now, a reflection on the subject to mull...with a little catholic metaphysics on what-begets-god for ya to also chomp on.
Everywhere I go I find that a poet has been there before me.
Dear Mr. Burgess,
Herr Wenner has forwarded your useless letter from Rome to the National Affairs Desk for my examination and/or reply.
Unfortunately, we have no International Gibberish Desk, or it would have ended up there.
What kind of lame, half-mad bullshit are you trying to sneak over on us? When Rolling Stone asks for “a thinkpiece", goddamnit, we want a fucking Thinkpiece... and don’t try to weasel out with any of your limey bullshit about a “50,000 word novella about the condition humaine, etc...”
Do you take us for a gang of brainless lizards? Rich hoodlums? Dilettante thugs?
You lazy cocksucker. I want that Thinkpiece on my desk by Labor Day. And I want it ready for press. The time has come & gone when cheapjack scum like you can get away with the kind of scams you got rich from in the past.
Get your worthless ass out of the piazza and back to the typewriter. Your type is a dime a dozen around here, Burgess, and I’m fucked if I’m going to stand for it any longer.
Sincerely,
Hunter S Thompson
the "dime a dozen" recipient of this letter, anthony burgess, is the author of "A Clockwork Orange."
He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.
Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?
And when you crochet I feel mesmerized and proud
I am quite illiterate, but I read a lot.
Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.
see: red queen theory.