Finished! Beautiful mermen are obscenely hard to paint, so I don’t foresee doing too many more in the future. Click through for the high-res!
While compiling this list I attempted as often as possible to learn not what the presidents ate at state functions and inaugural dinners but during their solitary breakfasts and family suppers—in other words, their comfort foods. Often this information came from contemporary accounts, and occasionally from the recipe cards of first ladies who left for posterity the dishes they’d cooked for their husbands, during the White House years as well as the early days of their marriages. Where this was difficult to track down (such as with the earlier presidents), I focused on menu items from the more personal of the large events (birthday and wedding dinners, for example) held in the presidents’ honor. A lot of this information came from the wonderful Food Timeline, which is maintained as a resource for young students, but can be just as fascinating to readers who don’t have to ask an adult before they try to make corn pone.
The evolution of American taste is on display here (Teddy Roosevelt’s hominy and green turtle soup traded in for Ford’s spaghetti and meatballs), as are glimpses into the very different personalities of the men that have held the office. A few things to look out for: Those who gorged when under pressure (Clinton, Taft) and those who all but starved in times of strain (Nixon, Kennedy, Lincoln); those who used their station to procure the finest cuisine available in their time (Jefferson, Arthur); and those who remained attached to the dishes with which they’d grown up (Truman, FDR, and Grant). And with the Fourth of July fast approaching, here’s where to find something intriguingly quaint to make in honor of our country’s strange and fascinating history. I’ve got my eye on Daniel Webster’s Punch.
i present to you, the butt song from hell, with lyrics, so you can even sing along if you want:
butt song from hell
this is the butt song from hell
we sing from our asses while burning in purgatory
the butt song from hell
the butt song from hell
"In section 3, on page 123, I found the remains of a very cute mouse. When I inspected it, it appeared tanned with the hair on, the tail and legs removed. Even more oddly, it was not causing any staining or damage, so I left it in place. The homilie where the mouse was found is titled “Concerning Prayer”, and for the curious, there are no textual rodent references on the adjacent pages. It is difficult to believe that this was an accident, and there were half a dozen other more usual items put into this book: leaves, ferns, seeds, scraps paper with notes. It is tempting to concoct a story why the mouse was put there: possibly as an alert from a teacher to see if the student was actually reading these dry sermons? A wake up call? A reminder of the inevitability of death for living things, as compared to the longevity of the written word?"
By Aki Inomata, quite literally taking the hermit crabs ability for carrying their home on their back, the Japanese artist crafts architecturally inspired shells from plastic for the crabs, with miniature cities on them. I think another fantastic aspect is the transparency, how you can see the anatomy of the crab even when they withdraw is just fascinating.
…so I thought I’d post my translation
I’ll fuck you both and fuck your fucking faces
Aurelius, you nonce, you bitch Furius
who think I must be some kind of pussy creep
because my verse is tender, a bit risqué.
A poet should be well-mannered and decent
the poetry itself, not necessarily,
the which (mine, anyway) has a grain of wit
because it’s tender, a little bit risqué
enough to rouse an itch and scratch it, not just
in spotty kids, but in hairy old geezers
who otherwise can’t get it on at all.
You read about my thousand kisses and you
inferred a kisser hasn’t got a cock?
Fuck you both and fuck your fucking faces.
Published here, at Penduline mag.
I have been psychologically demolished by The Secret History.
Symptoms include: a trembling of the bones, weighed down by the heaviness of impure ideologies; a dryness of the mouth, parched by carnal considerations of the Dionysian sort; and erratic heartbeat, tempered by Hellenistic axioms and conflagrated by the burning feet of false gods who walk amongst us.
Any and all potential remedies will be kindly considered¹.
(and bless the anon who described me as Henry Winter-esque; we have rather an alarming number of things in common, it would seem).
¹ In lieu of remedy, invitations to a midnight bacchanal will be accepted.