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If you could live in any Middle Eastern city, which city would you choose, and why?

~ Connor

I miss Flint terribly these days, all the more since Public Enemy No. 1, Don Williamson, our own little W-styled Banana Republican (as opposed to City Council, Lès Mòùntàìn) has met his match, not in his witholding millions in nonprofit funds, laying off city employees, bickering with unions, or refusing to share financial data, but in his desecration of ‘the Rock’.

This one’s late, but it’s a freebie:

Who might you miss more: Ashcroft or Rumsfeld?

Rank the following places where you would be trapped from 1 (most preferable) to 10 (least):

1) a deserted tropical island with only coconuts and crabs for food,

2) a desolate, windswept, mountaintop monastery

3) a thriving city in which you could not speak the language

4) the South Pole base in mid-July

5) an abandoned coal mine

6) a satellite floating through space, controlled by a deranged artificial intelligence

7) Hell

8) Purgatory

9) Heaven

10) Michigan City, IN

The second indulgence of the month.

By early last week the burst of energy that I’d carried over from the election, R.E.M. and Gothic Funk #1 had diminished.

I’ve felt underwhelmed and overwhelmed.

The humorous clichè (cliche??? clicheè???) everyone’s tolerated is “I’m never getting married and applying to grad school in the same year ever again.”

Posted on the sidebar.

Would you choose infamy or anonymity?

Note: The idea for these posts is inspired by this book, though I’ll typically come up with the actual questions myself.

~ Connor

Demolition has begun on the last factory that participated in the 1937-1938 Flint Sit-Down Strike.

From the Flint Journal:

The area, known as Chevy-in-the-Hole among longtime Flint workers, was once the heart of Chevrolet’s worldwide manufacturing operations and employed thousands of hourly and salaried workers.

from Paul:

There will be no burial.

Do not wrap me in layers of cloth and lock me away in a wooden box. Do

not lower me into a cement hole to moulder in isolation. Do not refuse

me my chance to fulfill my ultimate destiny, to be reborn in the

flowers and the trees, to live again as a wasp or a cat or a frog.

A girl named Cinders discovered my blog earlier this month and decided to participate in the Blog Game. Her funeral is described below:

Cremate me and take the ashes to a ‘”round house” on the gulf coast of Baja. Include only those who can have fun and those I like.