Notices by GeePawHill (geepawhill@mastodon.social)

Anyway, I think your butt is *fine*. I think your dick is *excellent*. I think your forearms are *hot*, I think your boobs are *great*. I think your calves are *delicious*. I think your hair is *perfect*.

I think your smile, your smile, I think your smile is *heaven* itself.

This whole concept of "why people vote against their interest" is nonsense, of course.

They most definitely voted for their interest.

Sadly for them, they thought it would only hurt others.

Sadly for the rest of us, their interest was unsavory and grotesque and ignorant and racist and sexist and hateful.

I got no patience for "I didn't vote for this."

Of course you did, sugar. And you knew what you were voting for. You *said* what you were voting for.

Anyone who's ever seen even a couple of photos of miners, coal picker children, sweat shop children, newsboy children, or tenements in the stretch from 1890 to 1920 knows perfectly well why Labor Day is so important.

My father hated the unions, and I was raised on stories of Hoffa and the Teamsters and the Mob.

But unions saved millions of lives, adult and children both.

I am not a holiday kinda guy. But I honor the men, women, and children who founded America's labor movement.

@whitequark Assuming you're not on a very old-school terminal, prolly 11, VT.

Goddammit, I don't want to go Linux, I really don't. I have been using *nix boxes professionally since about 1984, and I have never seen a linux UI that didn't suck.

At this point, tho, I feel like I really don't have another choice.

@skinnylatte Knowing you as a cat person, I love to see how this one has wrangled its way in to your heart.

@skinnylatte OMG. I take it back. I just remembered your friend and her shoes.

I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking.

Dear #monsterdon . . .

Just a note to say that as a non-participant, I love to see my tl flooded with your output.

Enjoy the film! I haven't seen it for prolly 5 decades, but I did think it was funny and strange and even a little scary. The blooms got to me.

Community is resistance, so keep up the good work!

@skinnylatte Well, he passed in '21. But the first time I went to SF on a gig, I had only one real goal: to go to City Lights.

I went there many many times, but never had my secret dream, to meet him, come true.

"I am waiting" is the first poem I ever read by Ferlinghetti. It led, of course, to me reading many more.

If you read it, remember, you are meant to *sound* it, out loud or in your head, to hear yourself declaim it.

Even today -- this poem was written two years before my birth -- it seems current to me.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42869/i-am-waiting-56d22183d718a

Apropos absolutely nothing, I'mo just dork-snipe you here.

https://507movements.com

Because I can. That's why. Because I can.

I never promised you a rose garden. You knew I was a snake when you clutched me to your breast.

@chris We all pee out in the back yard, and we all swear like sailors, but I am the only one who smokes. What kind of adult would allow one of their young'uns to take up that filthy deadly habit!?!

Fine. I made the beds, and I took the dogs for smoke'n'a'pee.

Give me a fucking beer and a fucking shot.

Dear LGBQTIA+ persons:

For the record, you're welcome here. I don't actually choose my friends based on their sexual preferences or their gender presentation.

I don't get why anyone even would.

I value kindness, silliness, intelligence, creativity, humor, courage.

Unless, as sometimes happens, I would like to get nekkid with you, I really don't care about your lust or your genitalia.

I spoze I'd say, realistically, I see you as more than that, more than your preference or presentation.

I found this all rather mysterious.

My mom didn't waltz in to other people's houses like that.

And she didn't ever explain who, exactly, Mrs. Smith was.

But, you know, I was a kid, and I had my lemonade, and Mrs. Smith was always cheerful and complimentary to me.

And my Mom would greet her, bend over to fake-hug, and we'd be all smiling and laughing and such like. And she'd go inside this woman's house, and emerge a few minutes later with lemonade for me.

And, I think, a beer for her, and a beer and a shot for Mrs. Smith.

When I was a child, I met this woman named Mrs. Smith. That's not a pseudonym. And my Mom would drag me, not usually my brother, just me, outside of our small town, for maybe an hour's drive, to visit Mrs. Smith.

She was near-invalid, but not quite. An older woman, *enormous*, and she walked, the very few times I saw her walk, with two canes.

But that didn't happen much. We'd get there, and she'd be in a big easy chair on the porch.

Mrs. Smith was one of the more obscene speakers of English I have ever known.

I mean, talking to my Mom, talking to the world, this woman rivaled even my father, who was himself quite gifted at the use of profanity.

And my Mom would sit with her for a while, they'd be gossiping about stuff I didn't understand, other than the dirty parts I wasn't supposed to understand.

This fucking life is so hard.

We do what we can.

And however awful everything is, however sad, however miserable, still, even so, we have the capacity to love.

And even on my worst days -- I'm in a long string of worst days just now -- I still can sometimes remember.

Love is possible.

She, of course, had married, I was born 15 years after the war, she'd married and in fact divorced, and she brought her son to meet the woman who might have been his grandmother.