Thank you to the brilliant and brave gut spiller and truth speaker, Lewis Black, who from his very proper podium in the cavernous atrium of the Indianapolis Central Library let loose to an assemblage of supporters gathered to honor the legacy of Kurt Vonnegut.
I am not anti-Christian when I stand up for LGBT rights. I am anti-bigotry. The fact that someone identifies as a Christian has nothing to do with it. There is no war on religion. It is a war on discrimination. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Just because the ACA is better than what came before it doesn't mean it is good. It certainly doesn't mean it is good enough. The right can call out all the problems and label them as they wish. Never mind that they laid the groundwork for those problems.
Syria is yet another tragedy where the U.S. has no good options, and this is partly a result of its own inconsistent and contradictory policy and goals. Ending violence in Syria requires a long-term solution. There just isn't any quick fix.
It's right around the corner, folks. That special time of year when politicians flee the Washington summer weather for their home districts for 5 weeks of paid time off, in which many politicians hold "town hall" meetings.
This is one of the best reasons I've heard yet for why the Obama administration should release the legal memos written to justify its overseas targeted killings of terror suspects, regardless of whether any court ever orders it to.
Milo Minderbinder is the war profiteer from Catch 22, "perhaps the best known of all fictional profiteers" in American lit. He was a parody of the American dream and a satire of the modern businessman. Kind of reminds you of the definition of a mercenary, doesn't it?
Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk time-warps back to the excesses of the Bush administration in following the titular protagonist, and the seven surviving members of Bravo Squad, for one afternoon as they receive a heroes' welcome during the Dallas Cowboys' Thanksgiving Day football game.
As an artist, he dared to write the unthinkable: that it's totally insane to be 22 years old and to see another soldier's half-digested lunch spill in a bloody mess out of his flak jacket after he'd been pulverized by a bomb.
In 1967, my life turned a sharp corner. I impulsively decided to audit Heller's playwriting seminar at Yale. His mordant new novel, Catch-22, was suddenly as relevant as Bob Dylan, whose music I would learn he loved.
My father was not Hannibal Lecter crossed with Mussolini, as a few have apparently thought I've depicted him in my book. His teasing sometimes hit the wrong note, but I think half the time he said things simply because they were too clever to suppress.
The first time I saw Catch-22, I fell madly in love with it. I was only nine years old, and read about three pages before putting it down. Although I've tried many times to finish reading it, I'm only reading the whole book for the first time now.
I prepared for my book reading the way I prepare for most new life experiences: I broke out in hives, didn't sleep for a week, misplaced the mascara, was limned in a perpetual clammy sweat, couldn't breathe and felt bizarrely seasick.
Listening to Dee and my father having a conversation was like snaring front seats at the Sarcasm Olympics, with barbs and ripostes flying back and forth over the table, whizzing past your stuffed derma like torpedoes.