Not seeing a source for this one, but the undocumented sexual abuse of young boys by female teachers in public schools is widespread. It quickly corrupts otherwise virtuous young men. View quoted note →

GM. Enjoy some #coffeechain and one of Kipling’s most recognized poems. If— IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

On a long enough timeline truth, goodness, and beauty win, and win handily.

GM. Here’s some Rudyard Kipling to start the day. Drink some #coffeechain and enjoy something from a different time. The King and the Sea After His Realms and States were moved To bare their hearts to the King they loved, Tendering themselves in homage and devotion, The Tide Wave up the Channel spoke To all those eager, exultant folk:— “Hear now what Man was given you by the Ocean! “There was no thought of Orb or Crown When the single wooden chest went down To the steering-flat, and the careless Gunroom haled him To learn by ancient and bitter use, How neither Favour nor Excuse, Nor aught save his sheer self henceforth availed him. “There was no talk of birth or rank By the slung hammock or scrubbed plank In the steel-grated prisons where I cast him; But niggard hours and a narrow space For rest—and the naked light on his face— While the ship’s traffic flowed, unceasing, past him. “Thus I schooled him to go and come— To speak at the word—at a sign be dumb; To stand to his task, not seeking others to aid him; To share in honour what praise might fall For the task accomplished, and—over all— To swallow rebuke in silence. Thus I made him. “I loosened every mood of the deep On him, a child and sick for sleep, Through the long watches that no time can measure, When I drove him, deafened and choked and blind, At the wave-tops cut and spun by the wind; Lashing him, face and eyes, with my displeasure. “I opened him all the guile of the seas— Their sullen, swift-sprung treacheries, To be fought, or forestalled, or dared, or dismissed with laughter. I showed him Worth by Folly concealed, And the flaw in the soul that a chance revealed (Lessons remembered—to bear fruit thereafter). “I dealt him Power beneath his hand, For trial and proof, with his first Command— Himself alone, and no man to gainsay him. On him the End, the Means, and the Word, And the harsher judgment if he erred, And—outboard—Ocean waiting to betray him. “Wherefore, when he came to be crowned, Strength in Duty held him bound, So that not Power misled nor ease ensnared him Who had spared himself no more than his seas had spared him!” * * * * After His Lieges, in all His Lands, Had laid their hands between His hands, And His ships thundered service and devotion, The Tide Wave, ranging the Planet, spoke On all Our foreshores as it broke:— “Know now what Man I gave you—I, the Ocean!”

Is everyone actually dooming at this price range?

Believing in a final judgment helps to keep men from going on crusades for things that are outside of their control.

As a delivery driver, I’ve learned that ETAs are usually empty promises.

First post is a banger. Bullish. View quoted note →

He voiced much of my childhood.

I’m going to say that keeping and ignoring #ReplyGuy is the ultimate Chad move.

GM. Here’s Kipling’s London Town to start your morning: There's no God in London, Weary, wicked London. For, look you, I've lost my friend— Lost her in London. My heart's best friend Is astray in London, Your terrible London! You've miles of granite streets In stony London; And millions toiling in London, Crowded London; But I cannot find my friend, My poor lost friend, For the tumult and traffic of London, Pitiless London! It's cruel seeking in London, Boundless London, For a face that'll never come— For the face of a friend, The face of my lost, lost friend, Lost in London. There's no God in London, Your terrible London! #nostr #apoemaday #coffee #coffeechain #londontown

There will be a ton of businesses built on #Nostr before anyone shows up. It’s going to be like walking into a world ready to serve you with goods and services you’ve always needed and not known it. The shock will be immense.

The American mall experience is dead. Good riddance.

So I guess muting Reply Guy doesn’t work like I thought it did. What’s the real solution?

GM. What are we adding in our coffee this morning? #coffeechain

GM. Here’s some Rudyard Kipling to start your morning. The Last of the Light Brigade There were thirty million English who talked of England's might, There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night. They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade; They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade. They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long, That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song. They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door; And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four ! They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey; Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they; And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites." They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong, To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song; And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed, A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade. They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back; They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack; With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed, They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade. The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said, "You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead. An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell; For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell. "No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight? We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how? You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now." The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn. And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn." And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame, Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame. They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog; They healed the spavined cab-horse; they housed the homeless dog; And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid, A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade. O thirty million English that babble of England's might, Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night; Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - " And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

Anthony Bourdain now knows that they serve statins in Hell.