gimme dem specs.
gimme dem specs.
The Death of FDR
On April 12, 1945, Franklin D. Roosevelt, 63, President of the United States serving his fourth term, died of a cerebral hemorrhage in his cottage at the Georgia Warm Springs Foundation.
Vice President Harry S. Truman took the oath of office as President at 7:09 P.M., in the Cabinet Room in the White House. Chief Justice Harlan F. Stone of the Supreme Court administered the oath.
Shown here is the White House Stenographer’s Diary on the day of FDR’s death.
-from the FDR Library
Via 50 Watts, 1960s illustrations for Don Quixote from around the world.
“Like most girls, my daughter hears, “That’s a pretty dress, did you pick it yourself?” or “What lovely hair you have,” or “You have the most amazing eyelashes,” or “I like the bows on your shoes,” or “You are so cute” almost every time somebody engages in conversation with her. If family, friends, shop assistants, complete strangers, and even Santa only remark on how girls look, rather than what they think and do, how can we expect girls to believe that they have anything more to offer the world than their beauty?”
the other day, after having read this excerpt, i was hanging out with my friend and her two-year-old daughter.
when face-to-face with this little thing, i found myself with absolutely no idea what to say once i removed the possibility of commenting on her overalls (i’d totally wear them if they were in my size… they were black with white whales!). awkward though i am**, you’d think i’m intelligent enough to come up with something—anything—to say, but no. i just stared at her until one of her parents saved me.
maybe it was one of those “don’t touch the red button” situations, but regardless… this is serious business that even i was stymied by, once it was pointed out as being the default m.o.
try censoring yourself next time. just for fun. see if it’s an issue. it was for me.
[**psa: i’m hilariously uncomfortable around young children; i’d rather talk to your asshole 7th grader for hours than be left alone for onefuckingsecond with your baby. how am i supposed to know what to do with that thing until it’s reached the age of reason, or at least learned the names of all the colors?]
this. my. jam.
This is some straight up Farley Mowat stuff right here.
A Boy and his owl, National Geographic, 1933.
Idiot originally comes from the Greek word idiotes used to refer to a person who was a private individual, or more specifically, one who was so preoccupied with their own personal life that they would not take part in the democratic process.
Ultimate Book of Top Ten Lists by Jamie Frater, 2009.
OK, so this Goop essay contains some unanticipated real talk about insects and their exoskeletons versus the endoskeletons of us vertebrates (and how there was a time, millions of years ago, when a dragonfly’s wing measured three feet across, leading to a Russian theory about the creation of insects being a failed attempt by nature to evolve a higher form of consciousness).
i never get what i’m supposed to out of articles.
Bette Davis playing twins in A Stolen Like (Curtis Bernhardt, 1946).
One of them is up to no good.
IT’S FUCKING TUESDAY. DID YOU KNOW THE EIFFEL TOWER WAS ORIGINALLY MEANT FOR BARCELONA BUT WAS REJECTED BY THE CITY?
TIP OF THE FUCKING DAY:
YOU ARE NOT PERFECT, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULDN’T TRY TO BE.
PERSON OF THE FUCKING DAY:
HE WAS A MASTER SERGEANT IN THE AIR FORCE, A FANTASTIC PAINTER, AND A MAN WITH A GROOVY-ASS FRO. more»
EDUCATE YOUR IGNORANT ASS:
LIGHTNING WILL FUCK YOU UP. more»
FUCKING MIND-BLOWING BOOK OF THE DAY:
STARTING A BUSINESS IS A BITCH, BUT IT CAN BE TOTALLY WORTH IT. more»
USEFUL SHIT OF THE GODDAMN DAY:
PISS YOUR NEIGHBORS OFF SOMETHING FIERCE. more»
WEBSITE OF THE FUCKING DAY:
WHEN YOU ARE IN THE MOOD FOR A GOOD FUCKING CRY. more»
AWESOME-AS-SHIT VIDEO OF THE DAY:
15 COMMON-ASS MISCONCEPTIONS. more»
SWEET-ASS PICTURE OF THE DAY:
A SNOWY FUCKING ITALY. more»
BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—