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FML, or Millennials are Screwed
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Link of the day
- Hits: 1383
Many of his points translate well to Canada. Only while in Canada we don't have healthcare costs (not overwhelming, anyways), we do have a much greater cost for real estate. Everywhere. A good read that articulates many of the broken points in our current economy.
Link: http://highline.huffingtonpost.com/articles/en/poor-millennials/?mobile=1
The Human Cost of the Temp Economy
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Link of the day
- Hits: 1227
Having relied on this for a few years I was a little annoyed to see that someone else wrote the article I should have been working on. Well, not the same, completely different in fact, and much, much better.
Link: https://longreads.com/2017/12/13/the-human-cost-of-the-ghost-economy/
Ken Russell - The Devils
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Film
- Hits: 1435
Which reminded me a bit of Jodorowsky's films, well shot, well acted with a handsome young Oliver Reed and Vanessa Redgrave, amongst others, and delightfully, obscenely perverse. The true, if not somewhat stylized, history of the Church in France. Makes me curious to see the uncensored version..
...of hand grenades and crocodiles...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 1289
I'm in the Philippines, coming out of a subway to overlook a railway track into a great marsh that disappears off into a distant mist. In the swamp there are piles of discarded hand grenades, some old, some new, and I want to pull one out, yank the pin and throw it, only I consider that it might set off a chain reaction, set off all the piles of hand-grenades that I see, and I realize that they are old, lying in the swamp, they might go off at any time, maybe even just picking one up would be enough, or they might not go off at all...
...now I've found my way to an old plaster or concrete apartment building in the marsh, empty apartments face onto a flooded courtyard that's bridged by a balcony, there are windows facing into the courtyard and out towards the marsh, discarded iron bedframes and bunk-beds in the rooms, on the balcony looking into the flooded pool I can see crocodiles, climbing out, great hooked feet allow them to crawl up the walls, snapping at me, and I'm wishing I'd picked up some of those hand-grenades now...
A***** from the old restaurant, the Italian waiter, not the nephew, is there, and I'm asking him if he's brought any weapons, a Kalishnikov, anything, he hasn't, he's quiet, watching the crocodiles climbing the walls, they could get into those windows, climb the beds, there's no place to hide here...
...from the roof there hangs an old chain, not too secure, precarious at best, and testing my weight on it I'm not sure it'll hold, the last thing I want is to fall into that pool below, I hang onto it, gingerly swing towards the crocodiles, hoping to kick them, or somehow knock them from the wall...
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