Life, These fragments I have shored against my ruins, This is why we can't have nice things

A medicine for melancholy: my memories of Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury is dead. I learned of this today via Twitter, and my eyes welled up with tears immediately. My mother, hearing the news, invited me to call her at work so we could commiserate. I came to Bradbury’s work in the third grade, or thereabouts. I suspect my godmother was responsible. Her husband was a fan, and had even…

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Canadians like it on top, Meta, This is why we can't have nice things

Bordertown, Surveillance, and the Evil Eye

Last summer, I participated in the Bordertown design studio, a ten-week seminar on the subject of cities divided by borders. Everyone involved developed a deliverable, which we exhibited at the Detroit Design Festival. At the time, I was too blown away by the city of Detroit and its inhabitants to talk about my own work. (Also, I was editing my…

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Meta, This is why we can't have nice things

What fiction can do: or, a word on Mike Daisey from someone who’s met him

I met Mike Daisey after his performance of The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs at the Seattle Repertory Theatre, during the spring of 2011. At the time, Steve Jobs was still alive, and the theatre served free apple-tinis to patrons who came in cosplaying him. Black turtlenecks were in abundance. One of my oldest friends wore one, and…

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Life, This is why we can't have nice things

If you see something, say something.

I posted this comment following John Scalzi’s thunderous post regarding Penn State head football coach Joe Paterno’s culpability in the continued rape of pre-adolescent boys by Jerry Sandusky, a member of the Penn State football coaching staff. In the thread that followed, someone asked how Mike McQueary, the graduate student that observed the rape-in-progress and reported it to Paterno, should…

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