George wrote this song with Tammy, and recorded it for the first record he released after they’d d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d. Talk about a sad song. No matter what he said later in life, I don’t think he ever got over her.

Well, you asked me to tell you about her

Since we have been friends for so long
Well, she’s really an outstanding woman
More precious than any I’ve known

She’s soft, she’s kind and she’s gentle
She likes to be loved tenderly
She’s the kind you won’t ever get over
And she should belong to me

Don’t leave her at night, she’ll be frightened
She’s afraid when the darkness sets in
And blue is her favorite color
And she prefers home loving men

She likes roses on special occasion
Champagne makes her laugh and feel free
She wants to be held when she’s lonely
And she should belong to me

She should be here with me in these two arms of mine
Happy like we used to be, she no longer needs me
I’ve run out of time, oh, she should belong to me
Oh, she should belong to me”

@16 hours ago with 5 note and 34 play

"The only words I’ve said today are ‘beer’ and ‘thank you.’"

Bill Callahan, Dream River (via the-richie)
@1 day ago with 41 notes


so great

@1 day ago with 66 note and 239 play


I Break Horses - Smog

@1 day ago with 97 note and 641 play

The past is prologue and a crutch for the unimaginative.

@1 day ago with 1 note

Companies like Google, the key App stores, Walmart and so on must be heavily regulated, and the amount of commission they can take must be fixed by law.  If it isn’t, well, you get to read all sorts of articles wondering where the tech jobs are, asking why Instagram has so few employees, while Kodak had tons.  The reason is that tons of people are providing value to Instagram, or Google, or Apple, or Facebook, and they either aren’t getting paid, or are getting peanuts: they create content, that content has value, but because someone stands between them and the people who pay, they aren’t rewarded for the value they create.

-Ian Walsh, You want a good internet economy with lots of jobs? 

@1 day ago with 2 notes


There are, apart from the obvious, certain things which set men wide apart from women.  One is the ability to follow a game of cricket.  Arbitrary rules and indolent play over several languid days, frequent breaks for tea-and-sandwiches, several changes of  all-white clothes, and indeterminate outcome? That pastime could never have been invented by the practical, efficient, gluten-avoiding, answer-demanding sex.

Similarly, the ability to wallow for hours in the bath, listening to commentary on cricket and perfecting the art of tap-turning-with-one-toe is for chaps.  Edward assures me that the addition of a sock, preferably a single gorgeous cashmere Christmas one, stuffed in the overflow to ensure maximum water levels, is sublime.  And invented by males at boarding school where the hot water was seriously rationed. I have pointed out that this is 2014 and he is a grown man with charge of the energy supplies to this house, but I think he still enjoys a quiet British rage against the machine, and who am I to deny him? 

He was happily swilling about this morning, reading the Delhi Times online, when I wrecked the day by announcing I was going to cut the grass.  This too is a man’s job and he was immediately torn. Relinquish the perfect, dangerously-filled bath or let someone loose on the lawn who may leave it with wobbly stripes? In the end, the bath won and I was allowed the key to The Shed.

I made a complete hash of it, of course.  I swerved round clumps of pretty daisies and went across instead of down and stopped to throw balls for the dog which left alarming bald patches because I forgot to stop the machine.  The MCC groundsman would have fainted.

I did learn, though, why men insist it’s their job.  The sun shone, the smell of cut grass is legendarily sublime; the noisy mower meant I could ignore the squabble over who finished the milk that floated out of the open kitchen doors; emptying soft thuds of emerald cuttings into the compost heap was both delicious and satisfying; the smug cup of tea afterwards was heaven.

I’ve also developed a satisfying old-man grunt when I get up, reminding everyone that I’ve worked hard and I’m feeling a little stiff.  My turn in the bath, I think.

-Mon Avis, Mes Amis

@2 days ago with 3 notes

A Boy and his owl, National Geographic, 1933.



A Boy and his owl, National Geographic, 1933.



(via productoftheinternet)

@2 days ago with 1728 notes

"Who are we, if not measured by our impact on others? That’s who we are! We’re not who we say we are, we’re not who we want to be — we are the sum of the influence and impact that we have, in our lives, on others."

Neil deGrasse Tyson on Carl Sagan at yesterday’s Library of Congress event celebrating Sagan (via alesthetique)

(Source: , via knotformation)

@22 hours ago with 2825 notes


I don’t think love is a violent and selfish affair. If it is, you’re doing it wrong. There are obstacles, sure, but what does a horse do when it sees an obstacle—it jumps over it. Squirrels do too. The only animals that run headlong into obstacles are humans.

It could be good to live without hope or desire though. People are always desiring things and it ruins them. Take what you have and love it. Everything is just about equal. Whatever you’ve got needs your love as much as the thing you think you need to have more.


Bill Callahan (via permanentsmile)
@1 day ago with 56 notes

Chan Marshall (Cat Power) and Bill Callahan (Smog).


Chan Marshall (Cat Power) and Bill Callahan (Smog).

@1 day ago with 82 notes

(Source: dirthelmet)

@1 day ago with 139 notes
#joanna #bill callahan 


@1 day ago with 15 notes
#how do i prepped/menswore 

A Boy and his owl: the sequel

(Source: dynamoe, via lifeaquatic)

@2 days ago with 93 notes

From the zine Thrift Score, issue #11, 1997

From the zine Thrift Score, issue #11, 1997

(Source: stoner-sunshine, via breathingtimemachine)

@2 days ago with 244 notes