The Inferno

I downloaded Firefox 3 and all I got was this crummy certificate

Vonnegut in a garden. That is all.

Some more excerpts from one of my favorite authors:

The two most common elements in the Universe are hydrogen…and stupidity

This one’s simply great

I ran away from home when I was thirteen. That was 1947. I was on the road about half the time from ‘47 till ‘49, when my dad died. Every time I’d run off, I’d eventually get brought back, or wander home of my own accord. Worked the carnival in the tri-state area of Ohio, Pennsylvania, Indiana…drove a dynamite truck in Shelby, North Carolina…topped trees in a lumber camp in Matawatchan, Ontario…spent a couple of months on tuna boats off the coast of Galveston…and I often rode the freight trains, and slept in “hobo jungles” under the trestles.

Met some of the most decent men I’d ever known. Gentlemen of the road, they were called. And I learned at least two things: the first was how to make a great tin can full of gypsy coffee, with chickory…and the other was pride.

Not the false pride of phony patriots like an Oliver North, the sort of despicable nationalistic piety that shames the flag and honor of the country that permits him to spread and spread dissension. Not the bogus macho pride of street thugs who think they’re making their mark when they spray some inarticulate moron code on a clean wall. Nor even the pride that is wasted effort, the leaping in front of a TV camera by some prognathous-jawed, slope-browed sports fan, his index finger extended to indicate we’re number one! I gotcher number right here, ya boneheaded jamook! No, the pride I learned was the pride of taking care of myself, running my own life, being responsible for who I am and what I do, and where I wind up at the close of the day.

And this final one is a bit of a coincidence, since I just watched a little bit on metalheads opposing Tipper Gore, that sworn enemy of all musicians.

I’m so damned sick to the teeth of self-righteous assholes who want to censor this, and censor that, who always know what’s best for you and me. Don’t read this, it’ll turn your mind to thoughts of cannibalism. Don’t go to that film, it’ll make you want to vote for legalized bed-wetting. Don’t eat this and don’t play with that, stay away from this person, and shun that person, because I — the great interpreter of the word of destiny — have decided that they answer to a wrong name. Or sex. Or color. Or belief.

Like dirty angels dropping their stained feathers, they leave their detestable mark everywhere they light. It doesn’t matter if their names are Cotton Mather of Torquemada or Heinrich Himmler or Anita Bryant or Senator Joe McCarthy, Dole, Helms, Dornan, or “Tipper” Gore, they are the breathing face of the enemy of art.

Now, what was it Asimov said about Ellison again? Ah, yes

Harlan uses his gifts for colorful and variegated invective on those who irritate him — intrusive fans, obdurate editors, callous publishers, offensive strangers.