“There is clearly an intent on the part of law enforcement authorities here to engage in extreme and highly intimidating raids against those who are planning to protest the Convention. The DNC in Denver was the site of several quite ugly incidents where law enforcement acted on behalf of Democratic Party officials and the corporate elite that funded the Convention to keep the media and protesters from doing anything remotely off-script. But the massive and plainly excessive preemptive police raids in Minnesota are of a different order altogether. Targeting people with machine-gun-carrying SWAT teams and mass raids in their homes, who are suspected of nothing more than planning dissident political protests at a political convention and who have engaged in no illegal activity whatsoever, is about as redolent of the worst tactics of a police state as can be imagined.”—
I’m goin to the Minnesota State Fair today, friends. This is the greatest day of the year for a suburban girl from Delaware who never knew nuthin about cows and chickens and butter carvings of ladies and food on a stick.
Expect a list of culinary accomplishments this evening along with photographic evidence.
I am disappointed that Biden’s Delaware accent only comes out when he says “Washington.” It’s not quite “Warshington,” but there’s a hint of an r leading into the s. There are better bits of Delaware accent like a really squished “Wilminton,” or “winner” for “winter.”
Maybe he secretly says “Tuesdee” for “Tuesday.” Here’s hoping.
Women’s beauty rituals are somewhat mysterious to me, as they are to everyone who hasn’t been engulfed in them since the age of 10.
When I was 13 or so I complained about my mannish Polish eyebrows, which my mother convinced me to wax. I have extremely sensitive skin, and I came out of that experience with bright red lines under my eyebrows that lasted for two weeks. Two weeks with a stupid face is horrible for a 13-year-old, so I adopted a wise policy of staying away from anything involving hot wax.
So when I got to the Nails place, they started massaging my feet and all those nice things, which they had done when I got pedicures in South Carolina. And then they told me they were going to dip my feet in hot wax and I kinda freaked out— I told them I didn’t want the luxury treatment— because in my minimal experience with pedicures I’d never done that before.
And everyone in the salon laughed at me and reassured me that this was part of the process, that I wasn’t getting charged extra. (Honestly, it wasn’t that I thought they didn’t understand me, but they changed who was doing my nails halfway through and maybe they didn’t get the message.)
Anyway. After minor embarassment, I figured out the right way to have pretty feet. I still didn’t like the wax. It smelled like fluoride. But now my hands and feet are softer.
I left feeling as I do from all beauty-focused places— 75% creeped-out and 25% proud of my courage. And my nails.
On days when you get a serious blow to your ego (or a compact, spoonfed solution to what was wrong that you don’t really agree with… not really sure) at lunchtime, pulling yourself together to get some actual work done is particularly satisfying.
“Vowing revenge on his English teacher for making him memorize Wordsworth’s “Intimations of Immortality,” Warren decided to pour sugar in her gas tank, but he inadvertently grabbed a sugar substitute so it was actually Splenda in the gas.”—
The new Conor Oberst record is making me happy. It is like I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning II, or a corollary to Jenny Lewis & the Watson Twins’s Rabbit Fur Coat. I’ll send it along, if you want to share my taste in cheesy folky alt-country.