This may be a stretch, but is Meghan McCain the face of the new republican party? She’s seems a bit dumb and certainly unpolished, but she carrys the ideals of what the new party needs.
How about the new plus-sized model?
Piasecki HRP-1 Rescuer , late 1940s
The world’s first practical tandem-rotor helicopter and, at the time of its appearance, the world’s largest helicopter of any kind.
Flying banana
I don’t understand this Huggies advertisment. Not only did it not represent Huggies’ diapers, I came away from this advertisment feeling consoled in my belief that children ruin lives. I hope all you parents have fun making weekend plans.
A time-laspe video of an Arctic summer.
The thought of inundation by constant daylight sends a staccato sting of depression through my body.
Summer solstice
I went rock climbing today at Rock State Park in upper Maryland.
I was taught to do a duel rappel today. It was terrifying.
Oh, how I want to fall into those leaves.
(via monk3y)
Herself in Love
Here’s what women say, they say: “I loved him for his way with words, I loved the skin around his eyes.” They sub-divide their men, they apportion to them grassy knolls on which to lollygag, they create swamp bogs (the things they cannot love) and bottomlands (the areas with margins for improvements). They make mental lists: his nails, his teeth, his nose hairs. They think of men not so much as objects of their love but as a project that comes wrapped at Christmas, disassembled. His gentleness with dishes. His “visions.” His wretched socks. The way he tells a joke, the way he shifts the Datsun. The way he lifts his head from kisses on our breasts and gives us back a breath of our perfume. His naïveté in face of doom. His stomach muscles and the sweep of his long back.
A man is something which is nothing like the full sum of its parts—the way a snow crystal is not. A little dust, a little air, a little water at high altitude do not freeze the mind in wondrous contemplation of the universe until, in combination, catching on a random tuft of crimson scarf, a snowflake, fluidizing, breaks a woman’s heart.
What women say, they say: “He hit me like a ton of bricks. He took my breath away. He unhinged me and I started shaking. He undid me. He has done me in.” They turn tin ears on the music of the spheres and talk about his skin his smile his tender failings. No enigma equals the obscurity of how a woman tries to justify her love. Love is not a theft; or is it. Love is not a treason, is it. Love is not a perjury, or crime. It cannot kill, or can it. It will not test the morals of a race, or raze civilization. It won’t annihilate the native vegetation. It may not even exist. As God might not. Why bother with it.
But women say, they say: “I can’t go on without him. I think about him night and day. He turns me inside-out.” They say, “He has spaces between his fingers. He has fine hairs along his shoulders. He has toes.” It’s as though discovery of the other sex, the sense of parts apart, discloses brand new meaning on existence. “I never knew who I was ‘til,” they say, he kissed me or he touched me or he closed his eyes and laid his head down and said “thank you.”
Marianne Wiggins, 1987
laame
