I really enjoyed reading on Uni-Watch about Cleveland Indians diehards who’ve removed the ethnic caricature Chief Wahoo from their Indians gear. Some remove it perfectly, some leave the evidence of the removal behind - a sort of ghost. It reminds me of the silhouettes of slave life incorporated into the now-closed National Slavery Museum. Just as folks who acknowledge the legacy of slavery don’t love their homes any less, these folks still love their team, even if they don’t love this grotesque symbol.

Certainly a lesson about the power of clothing.


- Martin Pengelly

If I had my druthers, Americans would stop saying ‘if I had my druthers’.

You will, of course, have seen what I did there. And so there might seem little point in my carrying on to write: ‘What is/are ‘druthers’ and why would one wish to have it/them?

I asked this on…

The word “druthers” just makes me cringe.

By day, he’s just an average, mild-mannered man named Mr. Mobley. But when the sun goes down, he becomes… MR. SHAMPOO.


I struck up a conversation with him, and he casually mentioned that he was having trouble adjusting to Columbia, due to his “previous situation.” So I asked him to elaborate.

"I was born in Egypt," he said. "I worked on a farm until 3rd grade with no education. I came to the US for one year, started 4th grade, but was pulled out because my father couldn’t find work and returned to Egypt for a year. The first time I went to an actual school was middle school, but the whole school was in one classroom, and I was working as a delivery boy to help the family. It was illegal for me to be working that young, but I did. When I finally got into high school, my house burned down. We moved into a Red Cross Shelter, and the only way we could live there is if we all worked as volunteers. I got through high school by watching every single video on Khan Academy, and teaching myself everything that I had missed during the last nine years. Eventually I got into Queens College. I went there for two years and I just now transferred to Columbia on a scholarship provided by the New York Housing Association for people who live in the projects. It’s intimidating, because everyone else who goes to Columbia went to the best schools, and have had the best education their entire lives."

I watched this man—decked out in Yankees attire with a Yankees handbag—dance around, smile and wave at passersby for at least 20 minutes. Every so often, he paused to take a swig of Budweiser from the rather large can at his feet. Eventually, a nearby shopkeeper shooed him away.

New Yorkers Aren’t Rude. You Are.


And I mean that title with the utmost of respect.

I’ve been a denizen of this fair[ly crappy] city my entire life, in one way or another.  I spent some time in LA during college, but don’t worry, I got over it.  The one thing, though, that I’ve consistently heard from around the US is that New York is a rude city.

This is, I feel, based on a fundamental misunderstanding of what this place is.  

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I think the Five Guys comment board is starting to go off the rails.

Missed it by *that* much.

Release notes for the latest update to Letterpress.


“Je me souviens, je me souviens, je me souviens.” Chew the phrase inside your cheeks until your mouth is full of blood. You are a Québécois powerbroker, you have trapped bigger beavers than this one, you are going to crush this deal.

Watch out… get too close to that guy and you might get a Shawinigan Handshake.