Catch Somewhere, My Soul

 Catch Somewhere, My Soul

Paging through digital images, I fall upon one I took of a wall in the old house. Strange, cryptic figures my son drew when he was six or so, too charming to wash off, so instead I cut a frame for it from construction paper. It was on the wall in the stairwell for all those years. I actually wanted to take the drawing, but that would have required gouging a hole in the drywall, and I didn’t want to leave a mess like that for the buyer to patch. Instead, I took this photo.

The buyer was so enthusiastic about the house. He loved it. He was looking forward to continuing the years of careful work we had put into it. He had an “in” with the city planning division, so he’d have more flexibility than we had.

The city double-crossed him, though, and forced him to demolish it. More than a century old, and with decades of careful work put into it, and it’s gone now. And so is the majestic cedar tree we loved so much, that the neighbors loved so much, often stopping under it to use its hanging branches as a frame for their photos of one another.

Can’t hang onto that grief, though. Or that grievance. We sold the house, so let it go. The house is gone, so let it go. It’s not wise to be so connected to an object, especially one you don’t own, even one as large and splendid as a Victorian house. Anyway, home is where Kathe is.

Oh, right. Kathe is dead, too. No doubt that’s part of the issue with the house: displacement of a much greater loss. Well, then, home will have to be where I am.

There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to survive this. I was such a mess when I first met Kathe. I was incomplete. Immature. I should take heart, knowing that I did survive all of this, losses which would have destroyed me if they’d happened earlier. At least I’ve learned how to be self-sufficient enough to be able to carry on - even if I don’t always keep calm.

The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Keep calm and carry on."

The Answer Is Hidden And Folded Over

 The Answer Is Hidden And Folded Over

I walked around the room, pacing like a tiger. What was I going to do? As I walked between the shelf of preserved food which I had stored up as “treats” for when I was sufficiently tired of the chlorella and yeast and the door which I could only open in a truly dire situation, and only when properly suited, I recalled hearing that tigers, when confined in a very small space, pace in a very methodical way, making the same number of steps across the same distance, turning at the same spot. I was pretty sure my pacing wasn’t actually anything like as well-done as a tiger’s.

That wasn’t a helpful thought. What I needed was to deal with my situation in more constructive ways, not improve my pacing skills.

I pulled down my bed and sat on it, pulling up my feet. I thought about my former life, what I did with my days back then. There were all of those things I couldn’t do now. There were a handful of things I still could do. 

Whisper Secrets Only Your People Know

 Whisper Secrets Only Your People Know

“Oh, for cryin’ out sake!”

Laurie laughed.

“What did you just say?”

“Something we say in my family. One of my brothers said it when he was very small, abd our parents started saying it, and now we all tend to say it when we’re exasperated.”

“Heh. We all have our family jargon and conventions.”

“I noticed that at the end of the day you have a way of saying,’Ah’m tahrred. Ah’m tahrred an’ Ah’m hongreh’ in a very thick accent of some kind.”

“Oh, my, that’s a really good example. I picked that up from my father, who got it from his father, who was making fun of what one of his neighbors would say to his wife when he came in out of the fields. And considering how long my father and his father lived, that neighbor must have been wearing himself out in the fields before World War Two, at least.”

“I wonder how long some mannerisms get passed down through families. I heard Erin say ‘After you, Alphonse’ to Nessa the other day.”

“Making reference to a comic strip which ended its run almost a hundred years ago. Which means that it must have been passed down to Erin from her…great-grandmother or great-grandfather, at least.”

“It doesn’t just stay within the family, either. The other day on the radio, I heard the announcer talking about how something was happening ‘all around the world’ in a particular tone of voice, and I finally recognized it as the tone FDR used in his Four Freedoms speech. I doubt the announcer noticed what he was doing.”

Its Light Was A Thing Of Wonder

 Its Light Was A Thing Of Wonder

 I woke up an hour before dawn, an hour and a half before my alarm was to go off. I thought about trying to go back to sleep, but the predawn light coming in the window drew me out of bed.

I pulled on my longies from where I’d left them on the floor and opened the door to the outside.

It was cool, rather than cold, which I supposed meant the day would be very hot. The sky was just paling, the Sun only a brighter patch of sky at the moment. It looked a lot like the sky as I’d seen it many times when I was working nights, when the approach of Sunrise meant the end of another work shift, and it would soon be time to head home.

I missed my old job. It wasn’t what I’d set out to do for a living, but it was rewarding work, satisfying work. I worked night shifts by preference, because I liked the quiet and the slower pace. For most of a typical shift, it was just me and the residents.

The residents were good people, and I enjoyed being with them, helping them. Sometimes the work was demanding, but I took comfort and drew strength from the thought that I was doing a job that absolutely had to be done, 24 hours a day, weekends and holidays included. There was a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that was true.

There were only a few stars visible, and the Moon had already set. The brightest light was Venus, so brilliant and bright. I loved that spark in the sky, always felt happier when it was visible in the gloaming.

I called my wife “my Brightly Shining”, without really knowing what it meant. It just sounded right, for this woman who was the best part of my life. Only years later did I realize that the phrase, “the Brightly Shining” was associated in my mind, for some reason, with Venus. That was only appropriate, since she was my Venus, my ideal woman. It was also appropriate, since the Morning Star was so often my companion as I rode home.

I’d ride home under the brilliant point source, sometimes stopping to admire it for a moment, and slide gratefully into bed next to my wife. She’d hold me so lovingly, kiss me, tell me she was glad to have me home, and we’d fall asleep together for an hour or so before she had to get up.

I looked up at that brightly shining spot in the sky and felt my wife’s presence with me.

The Magic Eight-Ball says, "She was the Brightly Shining".

Something About What You Carry Or Have Carried

 Something About What You Carry Or Have Carried

“My brain hurts.”

“Aww, sweetie. Did you take your pills?”

“The usual ones: the blue one and the two aspirin. And I took the allegedly prophylactic

pills at six, as prescribed.”

“Well, come here. Yes, really. Come rest your head on my shoulder. I’ll stroke your hair.

Mmm, it’s getting so long, like it was when we were first together. Have some more water.”

“Headache shall be always with us. With me, anyway. Sometimes it’s like a thing of its

own, dropping in to visit. Or maybe it’s always there, riding on my shoulder, maybe, and only

brings itself to my attention from time to time.”

“Like a little guy with stubble on his chin whacking you with a hammer?”

“Heh. There’s the secret of our success again: I’m not old enough to have seen those ads for

whatever that medication was, but I know about them anyway. I’ve seen him in old magazines,

and parodied in Mad magazine reprint books. So I’m honorary old.

“Hold on a sec, let me get my water bottle. Yeah, now go back to stroking my hair. Feels so

good.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Starting to. Wow, it’s amazing how different I feel while you’re touching me. It hurts so

much less.

“But I do wonder if there’s something else I could do about these headaches. Or this

headache. The headache.”

“The great granddaddy of all headaches. I’m so sorry. I know it’s a burden on you. Mmm, I

do like your hair like this.”

“It’s not all that much trouble. I could keep it this way if you want.

“I do like it when you stroke my head like that. Well, when you did stroke it. I sure do miss

you. Everything reminds me of you, even my headache. It knew you, too.”

Sharon Olds Late Poem To My Father

https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2005%252F11%252F17.htm

The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Take care of yourself."

Thoughts On Moving House

15 April The movers came today, and they were here much longer than I expected, and got a lot more done than I excpected them to, which was good, but also pushed back everything else in our day.

The house looks...very different, with wso much of its contents removed.

Let Him Live, Lord

 [An older Creative Coven composition]

"You like the idea of being able to dismiss him as just garbage,

unworthy of life, don't you?"

"I'm just being realistic. You're the one romanticizing him as

some kind of wonderful guy who was deprived of the opportunity

to make the world such a better place, when he was just another

thug."

"He was nineteen years old and neither you nor I have any idea

what he might have done with his life. You're just trying to

make excuses for the fact that you don't want to stick a crowbar

in your heart and care that a human being was killed without any

good reason. How can you care so little that a human life was

snuffed out so carelessly by the people who are supposed to

prevent that sort of thing?"

"How can you care so much? What is this guy to you? You never

met him, he's not your damn cousin or something."

"Yeah, I think that's what's really at the root of this whole

disagreement between you and me. You just don't care about

people outside of a narrow circle, and you think I'm either

pretending to care or actually crazy when I look further."

"That's not true. I care about people. I volunteer. I donate.

But you do get kind of weird over people sometimes, and I don't

get it."

"That pretty much describes how I see you. When you talk about a

human being like he's a bug to be stepped on, that strikes me as

weird, and I don't get you."

"So what would you want for this guy?"

"I'd want for him and everybody who meets a cop in an ordinary

encounter to live, just to live. Is that asking so much?

The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Evidently."

There Are No Creatures You Cannot Love

 There Are No Creatures You Cannot Love

 

“Aaaaah! A spider!”

“Oh,” I said calmly. “Be careful not to hurt her.”

“I hate spiders! I wish every spider in the world were destroyed!”

I remembered saying almost exactly the same thing when I’d been about his age. My father had said, “Think of how many flies there’d be if there were no spiders.” It was an especially pointed thought just now, because the shed was teeming with flies.

I said, “Calm down, hon. If there were no spiders, we’d have to eat all of these flies ourselves.”

That got his attention. Ru gave a start, then laughed.

“Okay, you’re right. I know I have arachnophobia.”

That was typical of all of my kids. I talked to them as though they were adults, and they used adult vocabulary. It wasn’t even especially noteworthy for a five-year-old to use a six-syllable word that way.

“You do know that there are only three or four kinds of spider in the whole world that can even bite humans, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I remember Vicky told me that when I got that sliver in my hand.”

Poor guy. He’d been so afraid of a spider running over his arm while he was pulling a toy out of a crevice in the wall that he’d yanked it back abruptly, catching a long splinter and also barking his elbow.

I lifted a heavy piece of electronics we were saving to give to Harai when she visited next and found the source of the smell, which was also the source of the flies.

“You might find this interesting, Ru.”

“Wow, what is it?”

“It’s a possum that died back here. It’s all rotted away except for the bones and the skin. We could probably save the skull, and maybe the skin, for a craft project. I’ll get a dustpan for it, and we can take it into the kitchen and see. The rest can go in the compost.”

As I was scooping it up, Ru asked, “What happened to the rest of the possum?”

“Probably the flies ate it. When they were baby maggots, that is. Ate all the meat and left the skin and bones. And the stink.”

He laughed.

“I guess even flies are helpful, aren’t they?”

“They’ve all got a place in the world. It’s not like they were put here by an evil spirit to annoy us.”

The Magic Eight-Ball says: "Beelzebub, 'Lord of the Flies', was a typo. He was actually Beelzebul, 'Lord of the Temple'."

Something About What You Carry Or Have Carried

 I'm a member of an online writing group, which gives its members a one-line prompt to star from to write, and then we all write furiously for twenty minutes before hearing the source of the line, usually a poem. I think this is one of the first:

Something About What You Carry Or Have Carried

“My brain hurts.”

“Aww, sweetie. Did you take your pills?”

“The usual ones: the blue one and the two aspirin. And I took the allegedly prophylactic pills at six, as prescribed.”

“Well, come here. Yes, really. Come rest your head on my shoulder. I’ll stroke your hair. Mmm, it’s getting so long, like it was when we were first together. Have some more water.”

“Headache shall be always with us. With me, anyway. Sometimes it’s like a thing of its own, dropping in to visit. Or maybe it’s always there, riding on my shoulder, maybe, and only brings itself to my attention from time to time.”

“Like a little guy with stubble on his chin whacking you with a hammer?”

“Heh. There’s the secret of our success again: I’m not old enough to have seen those ads for whatever that medication was, but I know about them anyway. I’ve seen him in old magazines, and parodied in Mad magazine reprint books. So I’m honorary old.

“Hold on a sec, let me get my water bottle. Yeah, now go back to stroking my hair. Feels so good.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Starting to. Wow, it’s amazing how different I feel while you’re touching me. It hurts so much less.

“But I do wonder if there’s something else I could do about these headaches. Or this headache. The headache.”

“The great granddaddy of all headaches. I’m so sorry. I know it’s a burden on you. Mmm, I do like your hair like this.”

“It’s not all that much trouble. I could keep it this way if you want.

“I do like it when you stroke my head like that. Well, when you did stroke it. I sure do miss you. Everything reminds me of you, even my headache. It knew you, too.”

Source: Sharon Olds Late Poem To My Fatherhttps://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2005%252F11%252F17.html

The Magic Eight-Ball says, Write every day.

Playing the "Playing the Race Card" Card

I get so sick of disingenuous right wingers playing the "playing the race card" card.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says: "Speak the truth. It won't really shame the Devil, but you shouldn't be concerning yourself with what other people think anyway."\\

Books By The Inch

We are liquidating a huge collection of science fiction paperbacks from the 1960s-2000s.

We'll be listing them for sale as we are able to sort and pack them. Each list will contain about a hundred parcels. Each parcel will be about two inches thick* and will contain between between two and five volumes, all by the same author.

These books are not collectibles. We do not make any guarantees about condition, except that they have all of their pages and are readable. At least once.

Each parcel will come to you by mail, postage paid, for $6.00 U.S. (through PayPal).

If you live in Oregon's mid-Valley area, we may be able to arrange delivery at a lower price.


-- The Inchworms, aka John and Kathe




*So okay, it would be more accurate if we called it "Books by the Two Inches", or to be more SFnal, "Books By the 5cm Block", but do either of those sound as smooth as "Books By The Inch"?

List #1
Gael Baudino
Gael Baudino
Gael Baudino
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Marion Zimmer Bradley
David Brin
David Brin
John Brunner
John Brunner
John Brunner
John Brunner
John Brunner
John Brunner
Algis Budrys
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Edgar Rice Burroughs
Orson Scott Card
Jack L. Chalker
A. Bertram Chandler
Jo Clayton
Hal Clement
L. Sprague deCamp
Gordon R. Dickson [Includes Lost Dorsai – profusely illustrated]
Gordon R. Dickson
Gordon R. Dickson
Gordon R. Dickson
Gordon R. Dickson
Gordon R. Dickson
David Drake
David Drake
Robert A. Heinlein [including a couple of Signet paperbacks]
Robert A. Heinlein
Robert A. Heinlein
Frank Herbert
Frank Herbert
Frank Herbert
Frank Herbert
James P. Hogan
James P. Hogan
Tanith Lee
Ursula K. LeGuin
Ursula K. LeGuin
Ursula K. LeGuin
Michael Moorcock
Michael Moorcock
Michael Moorcock
Michael Moorcock
C. L. Moore
Dan Morgan
Larry Niven
Larry Niven & Jerry Pournelle
Andre Norton
Andre Norton
Andre Norton
Andre Norton
Andre Norton
Andre Norton
Frederik Pohl
Frederik Pohl
Frederik Pohl
Frederik Pohl & Jack Williamson
Jerry Pournelle
Pamela Sargent
Sheri S. Tepper
Sheri S. Tepper
E.C. Tubb
E.C. Tubb
Jack Vance
Jack Vance
James White
James White
James White
James White

We also have about a cubit of David Weber books, but since they average well over an inch apiece, it’s not really possible to tie them into two-inch bundles. Write and ask, and we will make a special arrangement if you want a few inches of Weber.

An American Victory, Yes....

My third novel, "An American Victory",* currently in progress, involves war across alternate timelines, between three different Americas, none of which had our Civil War:
One had a successful Southern secession after the failure of the Compromise of 1850 and became the imperialist Republic of Washington.
One had a Compromise of 1862 overseen by President Douglas and a secession in 1869 which was defeated in less than a year and resulted in a thirty-year Reconstruction, with the rebel states dissolved and readmitted as only four states.
One had a group of slave states refuse to accept the Constitution, and form the Foederal Republic of America, which became majority-black and black-dominated.
1926 is an interesting year for all three worlds.
My friend Gene Greigh has written an interesting book, "West of '89", which features a world where the Confederacy was allowed to secede without war, but a slave revolt and a later reign of terror produced a very unpleasant majority-black country.  The Confederate government in exile survives as a charitable organization offering help to refugees who flee its oppressive government.

*After Charles Fort's snarky observation that it was a safe bet that the American Civil War would end in an American victory.

//The Magic Eight-Ball  says, "A great empire will be destroyed."\\

Don't Like Feeling Like This

My new doctor has been modulating my supplements and my diet, and various reactions have been noticeable, but the most conspicuous ones are not enjoyable ones.  In particular, on two well-separated occasions I have spent an entire day in a sort of waking faint, feeling as though I might keel over at any moment.
I will stick with this program for awhile yet, to see if these "bad" days stop, and whether it helps with my migraines.  I will withhold judgment.
Sure am glad I have this here sweetie to look after me....

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Hang in there awhile longer."\\

I Visited the Poetry Dispenser on 5th Street Yesterday

The poem for March was from Rainer Maria Rilke:

Live the Questions

I want to beg you, 

as much as I can, 

to be patient toward 

all that is unsolved 

in your heart 

and to try to love 

the questions themselves—

like locked rooms 

and like books 

that are written 

in a very foreign tongue. 

Do not now seek the answers, 

which cannot be given to you 

because you would not 

be able to live them. 

The point is, 

to live everything. 

Live the questions now. 

Perhaps you will then 

gradually, without noticing it, 

live along some distant day 

into the future.

In other news, chronic pain continues to impair my quality of life.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Keep doing your stretches."\\

Go To The End of Jefferson Avenue, Then Stop

My physical therapist has prescribed 45 minutes of walking, daily.  I'd like to walk a different route every night, but I'm understandably starting to run out of them.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says,"Actually, you should go to the end of Jefferson Avenue and then turn around and go back."\\

Welcome to the John Burt Society

This query was sent to me at goodreads.com by Darlene Hartman: Are you the same John Burt who used to design science fiction vehicles and had a virtual "used car lot" of wonderful ships and runabouts, even down to the detailed designs thereof? I'm doing the sixth novel in my "Einai Series" (often called "The Skipjack Series") and am desirous of getting permission to have my protagonist buy a used space vehicle from the aforementioned John Burt. Thanks for your answer.


My reply: Alas, I am not that John Burt. I run into John Burts, or other people seeking John Burts contact me (sometimes police -- eek!), that I used to send out membership cards in the John Burt Society (motto: "My name is John Burt").
The worst John Burt of all was a pastor in Florida who had goaded one of his followers to murder a doctor for performing abortions -- and the scumbag even looked like me!

Anyway, I do hope you find your John Burt. My guess is he will be delighted.

https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/14025477-welcome-to-the-john-burt-society

//The Magic Eight-Ball says: "The name is not the thing described."\\

I Have Her

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uP5oylZW2uI
Depression is a cruel and painful disease. It has robbed us of many great talents besides Phil Ochs. As for whether "her" is literal or metaphorical, it doesn't really matter. People (not always heterosexual men) often personify some passion as a woman, a "demanding mistress". But also, plenty of people suffering from depression have destroyed relationships when they proved not to "cure" them, and blamed the lover. I am so fortunate that I have someone in my life who loved me enough to reach out after I had mistreated her so viciously, and ask me to try again. She hasn't made me whole, but no-one can -- if that's possible, I will have to do it myself. But she did show me that someone was capable of loving me that much. I was a glutton for love. It was not enough for me to have the love of a good woman -- I demanded the love of another, and then another, never satisfied. At my worst, I tried to have the love of three, any of whom would have been a good match for me, but trying to have everything more than just both ways made all of them miserable, hurt them terribly. I demanded that they prove themselves to me over and over, and was never satisfied. I am immensely fortunate that the true love of my life forgave me all of that, and invited me to walk away from self-indulgence onto a demanding path which led to the happiness I now enjoy. Depression is still an issue, but it's better now that I have found better footing. Ours is one of the great loves of history, even though no-one will know about it. Future generations will not speak of "John Burt and his Brightly Shining" as a metaphor for love, but that doesn't matter. The greatest soldiers didn't get medals, the scientists who contributed most never received a Nobel Prize. No-one knows who wrote "Away in a Manger" or "Darlin' Corey". No-one will know, but it happened, and it is happening now.
I have her. She isn't "nothing".

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "She's really something."\\

Modern Stone-Age Names

One of these days, I'm going to write a story set in a world which has (relatively) advanced technology without having metalworking.

One element of this story is going to be that characters will have "Indian names" (i.e., names which are nouns, verbs and/or adjectives), but names which could pass as "normal" names: Rose Winter, Joy Gold, Amber White, &c.

I have plenty of family names: Smith, Short, Black, Hammer, Harewood, Silver, Miller, Bear, Young, Pine, Potter, Hill, Broadacre, Door, Bale, Pond, Roundtree, Burden, Ransom, Snow, Fish, Hightower, Grass, Linden, &c.

I have plenty of female names: Tulip, Felicity, Holly, Ruby, Hope, Rose, Columbine, Melody&c.

But I'm having trouble with male names: Flint, Walker, Mark, Blue, Spade, Hunter, Stoney, Gray, Rice, Weaver, Oak, Robin, Cooper, Goodman, Cutter....  That's about all I could come up with.

Anybody have any suggestions, especially of male names?

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Ball, Black, Pool, Fortune . . . ?"\\

Feminist Graphic Novels

I'm writing to say that Kathe and I have both finished Bitch Planet Volume 1, and will be returning it tomorrow.

In the meantime, I must tell you that neither Kathe nor I liked it very much.  We agreed that it covered ground better tilled by novels like The Handmaid's Tale* and Native Tongues**.

Kathe asked me to come up with a list of better feminist graphic novels, especially ones which depicted a horrific patriarchal dystopia.  I couldn't find that exact thing (unless you would count the Sid Jacobson/Ernie Colon adaptation of the diary of Anne Frank: http://www.amightygirl.com/anne-frank-graphic-novel 

or Marzi: 

http://druidcitycomic.com/graphic-novel-review-marzi-a-memoir/

or Lili Renee:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10866058-lily-renee-escape-artist

or maybe Rosa Parks:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1161932.Rosa_Parks_And_The_Montgomery_Bus_Boycott

and there's a case to be made for The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/888169.Triangle_Shirtwaist_Factory_Fire), but here are some graphic novels that have come recommended by various people.  Some I have read, some I have not, some which the GNBC has read:

http://www.womenyoushouldknow.net/nine-graphic-novels-every-girl-should-read/

http://wrappedupinbooks.org/2014/06/13/feminist-fridays-graphic-novels-reading-lists/

http://bust.com/graphic-novels-by-women-that-you-should-read-now.html

http://www.flashlightworthybooks.com/Best-Graphic-Novels-About-Women/588

http://www.amightygirl.com/mighty-girl-picks/graphic-novels

Ody-C tries a different approach to undermining patriarchy, reversing the genders in one of the most influential patriarchalist documents, The Odyssey (which some have claimed was written by a woman): 

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25256034-ody-c-vol-1

--  John M. Burt

* http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/38447.The_Handmaid_s_Tale

(BTW: A graphic novel of THT is coming soon:  http://groupthink.kinja.com/the-handmaids-tale-graphic-novel-1630506060).

** http://www.sfwa.org/members/elgin/NativeTongue/Index.html

An Open Letter to Hemlock Andashes and Other "Real" Progressives

There is an interesting article here: http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2015/04/fellow-liberals-dont-harass-the-bigots-please/comments/#disqus

There are a number of interesting comments following it.

But one of the more interesting was this: http://back2theroot.com/2015/04/02/open-letter-to-raw-story-blogger-amanda-marotte-other-faux-progressives/, and I am astonished that I've never heard of back2theroot.com before.

And by "interesting" I mean breathtakingly boring.  I don't think this infantile whiner neglected any sophistry, down to and including Godwin's Law.

And by "astonished" I mean that I could not possibly be less surprised.

Dude, when my wife and I were doing cut-and-paste zines in the 1980s, it was typewritten text we were cutting and pasting to make up pages we could print on a photocopier -- we weren't cutting and pasting weary vanguardist tropes so we could feel all "radical" (and yes, I "get" your oh-so-clever play on words...o_0).

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Do the right thing."\\