Red Mosquito

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

Jorge wrote:

tree_ wrote:I can't imagine a celebrity I would enjoy a personalized message from. It's not like they know me. Feels staged and forced. If you're going to spend that kind of money, just please give it to me instead.

It works best if it's for a laugh, a gesture related to conversations you've had and not like a celebrity you actually love and admire. The idea (at least for me) isn't to pretend that you're actually friends with the performer. Like if I paid Chad Smith to send you a birthday greeting that'd be kind of cute.

tragabigzanda wrote:Where do you find you have so-called "parasocial relationships." That is, who is someone in the public realm that you feel a sense of connection with, like, "I bet if hung out we'd really get along"?

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

tragabigzanda wrote:

The Argonaut wrote:

tragabigzanda wrote:Where do you find you have so-called "parasocial relationships." That is, who is someone in the public realm that you feel a sense of connection with, like, "I bet if hung out we'd really get along"?

I think I could really make it work with Lena Paul

goddammit argo i just googled her on my employer's network

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

tragabigzanda wrote:

spike wrote:Albini

Yes this is definitely the obvious answer for me. I feel like Chris Getherd and I would get along ok too.

The Argonaut wrote:RM, what is the manliest way to die?

We learned this week that Norm Macdonald, who died Tuesday at 61, had been suffering from cancer for nine years but never went public with the information. In an October 12, 2016, podcast appearance on ID10T with Chris Hardwick, the Canadian comic discussed why he didn’t like either confessional comedy — “You know, how they got molested when they were a kid” — or leveraging one’s misfortunes for personal gain.

I saw a one-woman show once . . . and she goes like, “Well, my mother had breast cancer and now I have breast cancer.” And I’m like, well, that’s everybody. They think it’s so special, when everyone gets cancer and dies. It’s almost like the height of narcissism to think that you’re going to be so brave as to talk about it in person whereas all you’re doing is just garnering sympathy for yourself. How is that brave? It seems cowardly to me.

As an example of bravery, Macdonald mentioned the late character actor Richard Farnsworth, who was “riddled with cancer” when shooting his wonderful 1999 David Lynch movie The Straight Story. Farnsworth — a veteran stuntman before he turned to acting — got an Oscar nomination for the role but declined to publicize his terminal case. He then died a few months later (via suicide, as the pain had become unbearable).

And if he had said he was filled with cancer, he would have won for sure. But instead he didn’t say it, and in fact no one knew it. His family didn’t know it, he kept it from everyone and then . . . he did what they call a stuntman’s death, which is you put a shotgun in your mouth and with your toe you pull the trigger . . . and so that, to me, is courageous. You’re not being a burden to your family. They know nothing about it and then, you’re gone. He wrote a nice letter to everybody in the family and said that the reason he did was he didn’t want to cause people distress. So I thought, wow, how incredible.

In his stand-up, Macdonald said,

I never talked about me, really, you know, I talked about universal me. You know what I mean? That I was afraid of death or that kind of thing. Which is something that everybody is afraid of. So things like that. It was me, but it was everybody. I wasn’t pretending that it was a specific ailment that I had. And if I had a specific ailment — and possibly I do, you don’t know! But I would not talk about it. I hope that I would not discuss it and, uh, just try to, try to, benefit monetarily from, uh, from that. Which other people get, and they get nothing!

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

The Argonaut wrote:RM, what is the manliest way to die?

The Argonaut wrote:RM, what is the manliest way to die?

BurtReynolds wrote:

The Argonaut wrote:RM, what is the manliest way to die?

2 chicks at the same time.

E.H. Ruddock wrote:

BurtReynolds wrote:

The Argonaut wrote:RM, what is the manliest way to die?

2 chicks at the same time.

like, stabbing you? or gouging your eyes out? tickling you? What are we talking here, Burt?

E.H. Ruddock wrote:

BurtReynolds wrote:

The Argonaut wrote:RM, what is the manliest way to die?

2 chicks at the same time.

like, stabbing you? or gouging your eyes out? tickling you? What are we talking here, Burt?

Spoiler: show