Shares the beginning letter with

victory vanquish valiant virtuous vice vim veritable voracious (eater) vie vine

rhymes with ale

my verdant valley

my Vale of the fairies



Robert E. Lee: Douchebag of Epic Proportions

I came across this disgusting post today. Of course, you never know whether quotes are accurately attributed on the internet, but it appears D’Souza did in fact say this in an interview:

“Historically illiterate” sure sounds elitist and incisive, but you know what’s fucking worse than being “historically illiterate”? Just being the regular old type of illiterate. Hey Dinesh D’Souza, have you ever heard of like, a dictionary? He may have missed the entry, but “integrity” is defined thus:
the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness.
Synonyms include honesty, probity, virtue, morality, decency, sincerity, and righteousness. It would seem to me, perhaps a “historically illiterate” woman, that a man whose loyalty to the state of Virginia caused him to lead a fucking army to wage a war in support of two causes he allegedly opposes is literally the exact opposite of someone who has “integrity.”

Do people even listen to themselves when they say retarded shit like this? Hey, this Nazi really is against murder, but he murdered a bunch of Jewish people, because you know, loyalty to Germany and such. Of course, obviously very much a man of “unimpeachable integrity.” And if you disagree, you’re definitely historically illiterate.  

It’s not because I am a “historically illiterate” leftist that I feel this way. I grew up in Lee’s home state of Virginia. I’ve been immersed in all the fun confederacy stuff, including plantation tours, visiting Lee’s house, touring Stonewall Jackson’s house, etc. While I sincerely enjoyed and appreciated those historical lessons, believe me when I say I’ve heard to no end that Lee really hated slavery and didn’t even want to secede but DERP DERP LOYALTY TO HIS HOME STATE. That fairy tale sounded plausible to a TEN YEAR OLD but then you know, I grew a brain and realized it was bullshit logic. It may be a legitimate point to make about moral dilemmas a man may face in his lifetime, or the ethical quandaries entailed in war, but it is inaccurate to herald Lee as man of great moral resolve. If loyalty to your state causes you to compromise two of your (allegedly) closely-held values, you are by definition NOT someone who has particularly strong moral principles. 

Putting petty issues of definitions and logic aside, Wikipedia provides an enlightening account of Robert E. Lee’s attitude toward three of his slaves, who escaped but were forced to return to Arlington:

Wesley Norris himself spoke out about the incident after the war, in an 1866 interview printed in an abolitionist newspaper, the National Anti-Slavery Standard. Norris stated that after they had been captured, and forced to return to Arlington, Lee told them that “he would teach us a lesson we would not soon forget.” According to Norris, Lee then had the three of them firmly tied to posts by the overseer, and ordered them whipped with fifty lashes for the men and twenty for Mary Norris. Norris claimed that Lee encouraged the whipping, and that when the overseer refused to do it, called in the county constable to do it instead.
 “Unimpeachable integrity” indeed.

The Week

Monday she woke up still drunk at 11:30 and called people to confirm her friend’s brother had indeed showed up at her ex-boyfriend’s door and together they finished the Johnny Walker Red, spiked a carafe of orange juice at Denny’s with cheap vodka, the color of light sunshine for a heavy heart, bottled oblivion. They stumbled around the lake until the sun came up and she would not see the brother until her friend’s wedding over a decade later, when she was slower and less angry. She was not old enough to have hangovers but the day was restless and heavy and she let it slip by at Vincent’s house in the form of a horror movie; 10 years later the plot would suddenly surface in her mind, while the name of the film remained elusive.

Tuesday she complained of transience, and dreaded Los Angeles’s siren song of hazy nights and rushed minutes. She declared selfishness a virtue some 12 years before she read Ayn Rand’s so-titled essay. Ex-boyfriends fed her conceit and let her talk up storms of emptiness as cigarette smoke floated by on the cafe patio. The day was gray, and the skinny blond on telly condemned the rest of the week to rain. Her friend came by wearing an expensive pea coat and she vaguely felt she would like a boyfriend who favored pea coats.

Inner Senses.

Wednesday, she wore angora and hoped it had not necessitated the killing of rabbits. She misplaced her journal and thought she might die without it. She was frantic and tried to steal books at the bar, but Chad stopped her. A Georgian told her Southern Californians were cold, suspicious, and self-involved. She laughed and told him to get used to it. She left the bar with Tuesday, put her hands around his neck, and afterwards her hands smelled like boy.

Thursday, she skipped Astronomy class because whether the white-haired, bearded man’s description of burning blue stars and fiery planets was fascinating or painfully dull was always a gamble. She watched Tuesday sleeping next to her and imagined swift irrationality stirring and boiling over like coffee. She slipped out of his bed. Her temporary preoccupation paired well with the pulsing in her head and she walked slowly to work.

Friday, her ex-boyfriend lectured her about being devious and self-centered but she only cared for her coffee and bagel. He left her on the patio in the rain and her prideful, clear nights opened the skies and gave way to the heaviest deluge, despondent clouds, and wet wretchedness. A stranger, a Geology major, shared his umbrella with her and she was grateful as she watched the sloppy crystals fall out of the sky, blurring her vision. When the kind Geologist and his umbrella left, she considered her numbness and her alcohol-based romance: 3 parts booze, 1 part unspecified attraction, drowned in slate.

Saturday, she ran in the rain while thin shadows of trees chased her. The city was drowned in the angry tears of some heartbroken god and it came down so violently she could barely see. At night, after the torrents receded, she sat on a large rock, hiding under a tree, and waited for him, her toes grazing a pool of ivy. He came stumbling around the corner shortly, and she remembered that when she thought she’d lost her journal she felt she would die, her trite thoughts floating among the unknown, abandoned in the corner of a bar, pages disintegrating and burning in golden whiskey, but her friend had sneered.

She blinked, she melted, she slept soundly in his bed, and it was Sunday again.