InstaPunk Returns

 What they had to do instead was put in a giant image-free link to Instagram, which had the real goods they were lusting after.   Thinking Breitbarf is making some kind of statement about hypocrisy. This from a website that never looks in the mirror.

  What’s really waiting in their Trojan Horse’s belly? Never done this before… Direct links to 10+ months of all of the posts at Instapunk.com. I knew who this guy was, said so before anyone, and predicted exactly how dangerous he would become. An occasional poster in these links, alias of Brizoni, assembled a book from these (and many more, through the laughably tragic 2012 campaign) called The Indictment: An Obama Diary. The links in blue are representative only of the nauseating First 100 Days. Read them last unless you’d rather start with a laugh than a tear. The ones to read first are the ones in red, last one first. Each link is a week’s worth of posts. Did this for 10 years all told. This is a true diary. Not everything is about Obama, although there’s usually a point of relevance. It’s authentic because it’s not corrected or gussied up after the fact. It’s not all rants. It’s got plenty of humor and asides, but that’s why it’s a real picture of the time between February 20...

  Think about how long it took her to find this card. Somehow I missed Monica’s last birthday card. But it surfaced last night in the wreckage of my flailing fall. I did what I could in those days. While I was writing Shuteye Town 1999 and the Zeezer Bible and The Lounge Conversations . She laughed when I read her the part about Ugly Shoes.  We’re still in touch. Most recently, she sent me condolences about my continuing sense of loss about Patrick Prentice .  No, she’s not my daughter. But at an important time in her life I was the one who was reliably there. I cooked dinner and sat with her while we ate it. We talked. Every day. When she got her driver’s license and crashed on the first day I was the one who took her in hand and told her what driving was and meant and what the rules were. When she got her first fast car (inevitably!) I taught her how to drive a stick shift. How to drive fast safely. She still knows all those rules and she’s had speeding tickets but s...

A Bucks Worth of Poetry for Five Dollars. What they call The Look Inside … I’m Seventifying now. I once had passion, meaning sexual obsessions. Excuse me, Erotic fantasies . Now I am simply sex-wise. This book was the last time I was poetic. Not great but skillful and better than most. I have explored every part of my being, way more than you. There’s an Alfa Male there, far stronger than you can imagine, and also Alfa female, some concatenation of my heroic mother, my erotic obsessions, and my two female saviors, who quite appropriately hated each other. Third savior might not even be alive. (Hope-a-Hope she is.) Hard thing being my consort. Lived through the Sixties, probably slept with fewer than ten/twelve women overall. Guess that makes me a kind of virgin in the Sexual Revolution. Content with that. Never did LSD, cocaine, peyote, heroin, or meth either. Just Moët Chandon when I could afford it. Some upper shelf scotch, sweet Bourbon, lots and lots of beer, and then the default t...

The oldest question in Christianity. Why does God take the innocent and leave the sinners on earth? Oldest story of parents who’ve lost children.  Why do bad things happen to good people? Simple answer. There is a heaven and a hell. God wants the good ones right next to him… More complicated answer: Via Channels and such, people choose when they die.  Ask me questions about this. I read the Seth Material. Pretty sure you never did. Even cheerleaders and high school footballers know when they’ve had their day. Dying young with a good looking corpse is not a meme. I ’m no dupe. I don’t do easy answers. Read my last six months. Instapunk Returns .