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SCIENCE FICTION FOR IMPERIALISTS SCIENCE FICTION FOR ANARCHISTS SCIENCE FICTION FOR MONARCHISTS SCIENCE FICTION FOR PEOPLE WHO THINK SUPREME EXECUTIVE POWER SHOULD BE LODGED THE CANDIDATE WHO POSSESSES THE MEMORIES OF PREVIOUS LEADERS AND, FINALLY, FOR THOSE WHO JUST SAY FRELL DEMOCRACY WE WANT ARTHUR TO RULE

Become a martyr for America, chiklits! Paul Campos connects the dots. Cause none of these dumb media fuckers is willing to do it: As I write these words, Terri Schiavo is being starved to death because she was once a chubby little girl. Almost everyone has heard about how, 15 years ago, Schiavo’s heart stopped

The strange case of the homosexual necrophiliac duck… Do you really need my commentary? I learn something new every day.

Here. via boots

I suppose I would take stuff posted at Tangent more seriously if they actually proofread their work. As it is, I merely choke on my coffee, as good old Dave clambers up on his pulpit yet again. If you’re going to post this blather from the most inane of the back-to-old-school-SF blatherers (“When men were

As there’s no real actual good shows on “real” television – and I hate commercials, the messiness of taping stuff, and etc – and since I do so adore HBO’s Carnivale, I went ahead and rented the first couple of episodes of HBO’s Deadwood. Watched the first episode last night, and thus far, I’m not

Oh, here we go again. It’s like the “Where are all the women bloggers?” debate… It. Just. Won’t. Go. Away. There is no such thing as Women’s Writing. Just as there is no such thing as Left-Handed Writing, Red-Headed Writing, European Writing, Northern Hemisphere Writing, or Writing from the Planet Earth. All of these categories

Most religions have a day of the dead, and today is that day for Christians. In this most secular nation, polls show few now know what Good Friday is for, this day for sorrow, for contemplating death, loss and endings. But here the usefulness of faith ends, for it is mainly the power of the

Read the rest at the Guardian: Let me introduce you to the real Charlotte Brontë. She was not a wallflower in mourning. She always wanted to be famous; she pined to be “forever known”. Aged 20, she wrote boldly to the Poet Laureate Robert Southey, asking for his opinion of her talents. He replied: “You

Again. AGAIN. When. Will. It. End???