In the days between two grotesque and revealing grand-jury decisions not to indict the killers of two unarmed black men, a photo of a white policeman embracing a weeping black boy kept popping up in my Facebook feed.
Here’s the stone-cold truth: I’m into some superficial entertainment right now. Various news items engulf me like an avalanche: President Obama finding his immigration balls a month too late; frat boys across the country getting away with rape, ho hum.
On this most recent Election Day, the one that saw the U.S. Senate floor—and those of some governor's mansions and local Podunk cubicles across the country—get scrubbed clean with the asses of Democrats, I did something that pissed off pretty much everyone I know, and a whole bunch of someones I don't: I stayed home.
I don’t live anywhere near Encinitas. But a lovely, graceful, terrific writer friend of mine does, and, last week, she—a cancer survivor and user of medicinal marijuana herself—drafted a lovely, graceful, terrific letter to some local publications about Prop. F. More specifically, it was about her opposition to it.
The food is delicious, authentic soul food. But the real feeding of the soul comes from the heart of this establishment's beloved namesake. Sister Pee Wee will call you "baby" and "sweetheart" as she feeds you.
Too many people have been turned off to not running a marathon simply by trying to start off too fast. Their bodies rebel and they wind up in a mental funk, wondering why anyone would possibly want to not run in the first place.