Forty-five years ago Lyndon Johnson was President of the United States. Art Buchwald wrote the following:

“As soon as the President finished his State of the Union speech, I was ordered to get some public reaction. So I immediately called my father in Forest Hills, New York, and asked him what he thought of all the things the President wanted to do (The Great Society).

“If he’s got the money,” my father said, “let him go ahead.”

“I don’t think he has the money, Pop.”

“I knew there was a catch to it.”

via Pastor Jim Wilson

Scenes From "Loomis The Apophatic."

On Valentine’s Day of the following year, two men dressed as British colonial soldiers arrived at the hotel to deliver Loomis a large black velvet box wrapped in layer and layers of white ribbon, pink ribbon and one frail strand of gold rope, tied in a small bow at the top.

A table from the restaurant was cleared and brought quickly to the lobby, the box placed on top. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the guests of the hotel had finished eating, gone off to see Los Angeles, leaving the hired help with their hands free. A small crowd of chefs and waitresses, bus boys, bell hops and maids gathered around as Loomis began untying the ribbon. Someone called for him to use scissors, but Loomis looked horrified at the suggestion. Everything she gave him must be preserved perfectly.

For half an hour he unwound, then fitted the ends back through their knots, until finally the box lay bare. He lifted the lid and the congress of onlookers compressed around him, on the heights of their tip-toes, like ballerinas.

Loomis pulled out huge fists of basil leaves, heaping them on the floor for several minutes, and then he jangled his index finger at the concierge, who stepped forward. Together, they lifted out a massive leather bound book that smelled of the herb, but of mint, too. The volume, recently oiled for sheen, was twice as thick as the hotel guest book and broad enough to use as a shield.

“Oh, mon dieu,” yelled a chef, stepping back aghast.

“What?” said Loomis, setting the book down.

“I’ve seen that book before,” said the chef, removing his toque.

Loomis stepped back so that all could see. He bent over to look at the spine, his face very near the book.

“It’s a Gutenberg Bible,” said the chef, and the crowd began to mutter and chat to itself regarding this claim.

“It is worth more than this entire hotel.”

“Quiet!” called Loomis suddenly and the crowd complied.

The little troupe of workers stared at Loomis, their mouths shut. He leaned down and rested his ear on the cover of the book, in much the way a spy listens through a door. His eyes narrowed in concentration, then he announced, incredulous of his own words, “I hear wings.”

Standing aright, he grabbed hold of the cover and threw it open, then sprang forth from the book’s hollowed out guts a great gust of moths— broad winged Atlas moths larger than crows, and pale green Luna moths, Death’s-head Hawkmoths to terrify and Madagascan sunset moths to delight, White Witch moths, Emperor Gum moths, heavy Bogong moths that fled off immediately to restaurant candles and returned in the lobby moments later aflame yet flying, slowing burning into ashes and fluttering to the floor, elegant Polyphemus moths, Titan Sphinx moths and schools of Rosy Maple moths no bigger than your thumbnail that dashed around the room like tiny fish in the ocean.

via the great gibsby

When I see a snake, I go overboard like Peter … when he went overboard.

dr. g. wilson, natural history lecture, march 24 2010

You have seen hail, sometimes, leveling the grass. Indians were so leveled by the bullet hail. . . . Children crying with cold. No fire. There could be no light. Everywhere was crying, the death wail.

yellow wolf, a chief of the nez perce

‘Verily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself.’ -Isaiah xlv. 15

God, though to Thee our psalm we raise


No answering voice comes from the skies;


To Thee the trembling sinner prays

But no forgiving voice replies;

Our prayer seems lost in desert ways,

Our hymn in the vast silence dies.

We see the glories of the earth

But not the hand that wrought them all:

Night to a myriad worlds gives birth,

Yet like a lighted empty hall

Where stands no host at door or hearth

Vacant creation’s lamps appal.

We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King,

With attributes we deem are meet;

Each in in his own imagining


Sets up a shadow in Thy seat;

Yet know not how our gifts to bring,


Where seek Thee with unsandalled feet.

And still th’unbroken silence broods

While ages and while aeons run,

As erst upon chaotic floods

The Spirit hovered ere the sun

Had called the seasons’ changeful moods

And life’s first germs from death had won.

And still th’abysses infinite

Surround the peak from which we gaze.


Deep calls to deep, and blackest night


Giddies the soul with blinding daze

That dares to cast its searching sight


On being’s dread and vacant maze.

And Thou art silent, whilst Thy world

Contends about its many creeds

And hosts confront with flags unfurled

And zeal is flushed and pity bleeds


And truth is heard, with tears impearled,


A moaning voice among the reeds.

My hand upon my lips I lay;


The breast’s desponding sob I quell;


I move along life’s tomb-decked way

And listen to the passing bell

Summoning men from speechless day

To death’s more silent, darker spell.

Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond,

To shew Thee that Thou art, and near,

Let patience with her chastening wand

And lead me child-like by the hand


If still in darkness not in fear,

Dispel the doubt and dry the tear.

Speak! whisper to my watching heart


One word-as when a mother speaks

Soft, when she sees her infant start,

Till dimpled joy steals o’er its cheeks.

Then, to behold Thee as Thou art,


I’ll wait till morn eternal breaks.

nondum, by gerard manley hopkins.

this may be my best, maybe my only answer to this.

Well folks, you say "potato," I say "you go straight to hell!" This is tip of the hat/wag of the finger!

steven colbert

colbert report, april 7 2010

Levon wears his war wound like a crown

He calls his child Jesus

`Cause he likes the name

And he sends him to the finest school in town

Levon, Levon likes his money

He makes a lot they say

Spends his days counting

In a garage by the motorway

He was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas day

When the New York Times said God is dead

And the war's begun

Alvin Tostig has a son today

And he shall be Levon

And he shall be a good man

And he shall be Levon

In tradition with the family plan

And he shall be Levon

And he shall be a good man

He shall be Levon

Levon sells cartoon balloons in town

His family business thrives

Jesus blows up balloons all day

Sits on the porch swing watching them fly

And Jesus, he wants to go to Venus

Leaving Levon far behind

Take a balloon and go sailing

While Levon, Levon slowly dies

He was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas day

When the New York Times said God is dead

And the war's begun

Alvin Tostig has a son today

And he shall be Levon

And he shall be a good man

And he shall be Levon

In tradition with the family plan

And he shall be Levon

And he shall be a good man

He shall be Levon

levon, by elton john, lyrics by bernie taupin.

this duo is responsible for the best lyrical poetry in popular music in the last 50 years, with possible exceptions including (but not limited to) paul simon.