The Definitive Blog of J.P. Moya.
Firmly Entrenched in the Theological West
Jarek Puczel, Lovers
(Source: ymutate)
gorgeous, gorgeous song. one of the best ever
“Satellite of Love” by Lou Reed from Transformer (1972).
The 100th edition of the Australian Open tennis tournament is currently underway in Melbourne. Players from all over the world have been competing in the heat of the Australian summer, hoping for a win — this year’s singles champions will take home $2.4 million dollars (U.S.). Matches are progressing today into the semifinals, with the final matches to be played on January 29. Collected here are some colorful glimpses of the 2012 Australian Open.
Above: Roger Federer of Switzerland serves to Juan Martin Del Potro of Argentina during their men’s singles quarter-finals match on January 24, 2012. (Reuters/Mark Blinch)
See more at The Atlantic
Mind-Melter of the Day
It turns out that if you divide 1 by 998,001 you get all three-digit numbers from 000 to 999 in order.
Except for 998.
(via Futility Closet)
Mathematics is a beautiful, beautiful thing.
Tanzanite from Tanzania
Mark Twain: Rescue Etiquette
In assisting at a fire in a boarding house, the true gentleman will always save the young ladies first—making no distinction in favor of personal attractions, or social eminence, or pecuniary predominance—but taking them as they come, and firing them out with as much celerity as shall be consistent with decorum. There are exceptions, of course, to all rules; the exceptions to this one are:
Partiality, in the matter of rescue, to be shown to:
1. Fiancées.
2. Persons toward whom the operator feels a tender sentiment, but has not yet declared himself.
3. Sisters.
4. Stepsisters.
5. Nieces.
6. First cousins.
7. Cripples.
8. Second cousins.
9. Invalids.
10. Young-lady relations by marriage.
11. Third cousins, and young-lady friends of the family.
12. The Unclassified.
Other material in boarding house is to be rescued in the following order:
13. Babies.
14. Children under 10 years of age.
15. Young widows.
16. Young married females.
17. Elderly married ditto.
18. Elderly widows.
19. Clergymen.
20. Boarders in general.
21. Female domestics.
22. Male ditto.
23. Landlady.
24. Landlord.
25. Firemen.
26. Furniture.
27. Mothers-in-law
BTW, I love my mother-in-law
(Source: kateoplis)
Terry Johnson's Calendar(s) of Hymns and Psalms for Public Worship (Ligon Duncan)
These calendars are really beautiful.
Lyrics to “Victims of the Revolution” by Bad Religion
- Songwriters: Brian Champtaloup Baker, Greg Graffin
What will prove to be our big mistake
Short sighted arrogance all for what sake
Our families to ashes, our ambition to dust
Our progeny in silence thinking, what about us?
But don’t forget the dance of neglect
The march for empowering prosperity
The pain from loss and want for mere lucidity
Just maternal residue, and I was there too
And may be so were you
When something is won, it comes with sacrifice
It’s there beneath the joy, the glory and pride
Rarely it’s acknowledged but in positive light
Consciously omitting the loser’s plight
But don’t forget the dance of neglect
The craving for community that never was met
The longing for status and the overture of regret
With no one to deter, pathetically unsure
Forgetting who they were
Just maternal residue, and I was there too
And may be so were you
The joy of bourbon drinking is not the pharmacological effect of the C2H5OH on the cortex but rather the instant of the whiskey being knocked back and the little explosion of Kentucky U.S.A. sunshine in the cavity of the nasopharynx and the hot bosky bite of Tennessee summertime —aesthetic considerations to which the effect of the alcohol is, if not dispensable, at least secondary.
Walker Percy in “Bourbon, Neat,” quoted by Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Since I first read this essay, when I was perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, I have remembered that invaluable phrase precisely and used it on occasion: “hot bosky bite.”
For some time, I supposed —stupidly— that Percy had simply invented the word “bosky” in an effort to capture the way bourbon tastes and feels: two syllables, because it is a matter-of-fact sort of flavor, concise even when complex. But of course “bosky” is a real word, with a definition: “Having abundant bushes, shrubs, or trees.”
Good God! If you’ve ever been in a hot Southern state in the summer, out away from the roads and houses, in fields or little glades surrounded by plain, unprepossessing woods, and if you’ve tasted bourbon, you must recognize that this is inspired, precise lyricism; it is the result of brilliant observation and masterful, unaffected diction. The flatness of bland blue skies which cling close to buzzing, sun-bleached, lush yet crackling lands, the simultaneity of heat and verdancy: this is the best metaphor I know for the flavor of bourbon, which, I regret, is irreplaceable if one gives up drinking.
Note also the two forms of prose: the specialized vocabulary of the scientist as a foil to the poetics of the the real point, the evocation of place and season and atmosphere. The sort of lexical pyrotechnics for which many esteem David Foster Wallace predates him, of course, although in “Oblivion” I believe he brought it to an apotheosis of sorts (an anti-apotheosis: the dull triumph of inhumanly technical language). But it is worth noting because Wallace’s real gifts, like Percy’s, have nothing to do with the niftiness of his interdisciplinary sentences; that is a matter of style, a style which either supports higher artistic aims or is lazy mannerism, as most writing in fact is.
(via mills)
The words of satan by the arrows
(Source: mjgraftedin)
