I never have been more wrong, nor happier to be so. I thought for months that the Pool Shed Papers was the smallest beer at the bar. I thought this because there seemed to be so many easy outs for El Caudillo del Mar-a-Lago. He could have pleaded sloppy packing. He could've called on the deference to former presidents in these matter. He could have shut his damned yapper and spoke to the DOJ only through his lawyers, instead of acting in such a way that all his lawyers became witnesses and (potentially) defendants. Once again, I underestimated the man. He even managed to bring this situation under the vulture's eye of the Espionage Act — which should have been heavily revised or repealed decades ago, by the way, but that's certainly for another day. |
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It's giving me piss dots. Don't ask. Just read. |
| Walkers, riders, shoe dogs and spike-lovers—we've got you. |
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For too many years, I lived in a Brooklyn apartment that felt like something out of Alice in Wonderland. The staircase up from the entrance was so off-kilter that it induced something approaching vertigo. Ditto that for the wildly uneven floors in the apartment itself, which made me—and everyone who visited—wonder if we'd accidentally dosed on something mildly psychedelic as we made our way from the kitchen to the bathroom. What I'm saying is: When I moved into my current spot, I was mostly looking for something level. The unrelenting sunlight pouring onto the only reasonable spot to put a television was the last of my concerns. Until, that is, the weekend after move-in, when I realized that watching Saturday morning cartoons with your kid is a lot harder when there's a blinding glare bouncing off the TV screen. Instead of turning my living room into a crypt with blackout curtains, I got a 65" Samsung Frame. It was absolutely the right call. |
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A man of substance deserves a gift of substance. |
| He was the beginning of a blight that is still causing untold damage among our fellow citizens. |
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The town consisted of just a few blocks. Since its founding in the 1880s, Cisco has been a stop for the railroad, a ranching town, an oil town, a uranium town—it burned through industries like a middle schooler burns through identities. At its most booming, around 250 people lived in Cisco. It had a hotel, a saloon, a gas station, restaurants. But eventually the train no longer needed to stop there, and then the interstate was built, bypassing the road that cut through town. Without the traffic, the town began to die. The last permanent resident moved out decades before Eileen drove through. By then the boomtown wasn't recognizable. The buildings were collapsed or collapsing or no longer there at all. Only one looked remotely habitable. It was covered in trash or, depending on how you look at it, "interesting historical artifacts." Eileen did some math: If they bought the land and sublet their apartment for the winter, they would actually be saving money. So they did. |
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