Two weeks ago I went to an Old Time jam. Two dozen musicians in a circle playing banjos, mandolins, guitars, an upright bass, a slide guitar. Teaching each other 200-year-old songs.

They gave me a literal block of wood and a xylophone hammer. I uncharacteristically ignored my terror of performing to cluck clock along. Transcendent experience.

Last night I bumped into a lady who was there. HEY YOU WERE THE GUY PLAYING PERCUSSION YOU WERE AMAZING!

It felt like I was Buddy Rich winning a grammy

OMG I WAS NAPPING AND I ALMOST MISSED #CATURDAY

Nah, no caption necessary, just a glimpse of the magnificently caramel-orange belly

Consider this photograph: Little Rock, Arkansas, on the morning of September 4, 1957. My own parents, in other states, were high school students that day. Living memory.

Note the primatology. A screech like a chimpanzee might make, pure aggression, part of our nature.

This emotion, hate. It is a potent mix of terror, rage, righteous indignation, and incendiary mob approval.

Our enlightened rhetorical questions about medium and long term consequences are a tragic category error.

@inthehands

Ladies and gentlemen! Please give a warm Mastodon welcome to the world's most relatable Emacs streamer, @daviwil

@ericg @evan A forty is a bottle of malt liquor, a shorty is a child or a girlfriend of small stature, and a sortie is a foray