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On the first day of Prohibition, January 17, 1920, Bat Masterson, a 66-year-old relic of the Wild West now playing out the string as a sportswriter in New York, sat alone in his favorite bar, glumly contemplating a cup of tea. In Detroit that night, federal officers shut down two illegal stills (an act that would become common in the years ahead) and reported that their operators had offered bribes (which would become even more common). On the Maine-Canada border, reported a New Brunswick paper, “Canadian liquor in quantities from one gallon to a truckload is being hidden in the northern woods and distributed by automobile, sled and iceboat, on snowshoes and skis.” –“Wayne B. Wheeler: The Man Who Turned Off the Taps,” Daniel Okrent, Smithsonian
Bring on the puffery! Arizona’s windbag-in-chief doesn’t need your money;
Hugo Chavez will bury, I mean, tweet you;
nitrous oxide on Mars: evidence of life, or is the Red Planet a haven for Dead Heads?
Larry Summers is a clumsy public liar. His noxious, condescending manner helps explain why he failed as president of Harvard. But it is the crude mendacity that ought to bother people now. The man is President Obama’s top economic adviser. Watching Summers befog the mild-mannered interviewer on the PBS NewsHour the other night, I found myself yelling back at the TV. It takes real arrogance for the former Harvard professor to imagine he can get away with such evasions and falsehoods. I lost count on the fibs. If this is how Summers explains the financial mess to the president, maybe that’s why Obama has been a reluctant reformer. –“Professor Pants-on-Fire,” William Greider, The Nation
Join a Japanese sex cult;
“Abe Vigoda, Emily Deschanel would appreciate a call,” and other famous people who should make babies;
sick Brazilians must have more sex
Guess what, “a body of research” coming out indicates that if you’re ten pounds or so overweight, well, hell, what’s the difference? It’s not gonna make you die any earlier. And a little pot belly is a manly thing, why can’t your wife understand that you’re in just as good shape as you were in high school, a few freaking pounds are not a big deal, you don’t need to be walking around looking like some god damn Ken doll, she didn’t marry a freaking male model, come on, give you a break, so what if you like barbecue, god forbid you be happy for a few hours a week, right? –“America’s Divine Right to Junk Food,” Hamilton Nolan, Gawker
More from TedRoss:
Years ago, I lived in Montana, a land of purple sunsets, clear streams, and snowflakes the size of silver dollars drifting through the cold air. There were no speed limits and you could legally drive drunk. My small apartment in Missoula had little privacy. In order to write, I rented an off-season fishing cabin on Rock Creek, a one-room place with a bed and a bureau. I lacked the budget for a desk. My idea was to remove a sliding door from a closet in my apartment and place it over a couple of hastily cobbled-together sawhorses.
Amount the inventor of the yellow “smiley face” had received for it by the time of his death in April:
An astrophysicist observed that the early universe looked like vegetable soup.
In North Korea, a missile capable of striking U.S. bases overseas blew up immediately after a test launch, and in North Carolina, a G.O.P. headquarters was firebombed.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”