Okay, here’s how you play. Grab the above Bingo card. Now, go to the Huffington Post and start from left or right of the “news” sections. Look on each page for one of the items on the card. If you find one, open it in a new tab in your browser, so you can prove you found it.
Anything in quotations means you have to look for that word or a variation of said word. For example, “Scott Walker Shocker” would win you the Shock or Shocking space under the letter “B”.
You cannot use the search field to find articles, unless you are playing the game to fill the entire card. In that case you must first play by visiting each page first, and if both parties haven’t completed their cards, you can search HuffPo, however you must only use articles written within the last 30 days.
Trust me, you’ll find everything.
“We have your family”
That was 23 hours ago.
22 hours since I stormed out the Polizia’s HQ.
15 hours since I capped a fucking snitch.
1 hour since I decided there was only one way this would end.
It might already be too late.
Found this burner shoved in my ticket pocket.
Ransom note wrapped round it.
Letters cut from back issues of Leon.
“Cooperate or we put them in RTW”
Those sick fucks.
by RL Stevenson Black Label.
Got my kin held down.
Got my fam tied up.
G’s trapped in triangles.
Fighting the Stockholm syndrome.
Hostages laced in H&M.
Less than an hour.
Running through Pitti.
Protect these soles.
From my bloodshed.
A sea of red coral.
Great Barrier steelo.
Even at my most vulnerable.
My most desperate.
My most human.
Potential threats all around me.
I stay clowning.
Finding Timo Weiland.
So I can punch them the fuck out.
But I can’t get distracted.
Reading that note over.
At the cafe last night.
Searching for clues.
Inside my espresso.
It doesn’t make any sense.
“Call when you are at the drop off”
“Bring us 100 unmarked, untraceable #fashion tags.”
“Who is your tailor?”
“We want to feature you on our Tumblr.”
“How do you feel about street style?”
Two-bit steez traffickers.
If they only knew.
P is home.
And like Albert said.
There’s no such thing as half way crooks.
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by Abdulhamid Qabbani
When I was in school my mum used to warn me that if I don’t work hard enough I will become zabbal (sloppy) – a derogatory term used to describe rubbish collectors. I grew up with the negative connotation of the word in my mind. Rubbish collectors remain for me the people I often see on the streets of Damascus but know little. Once I was walking down the street and bumped into one of them sweeping – without much thought I approached him and asked him for an interview - he reluctantly agreed to meet me and talk about his misunderstood profession.
A gentleman named Farhad Manjoo just posted a proudly contrarian article on Slate explaining why independent bookstores are not only irrelevent but maybe even harmful. I work at an independent bookstore, so that’s an argument I’d be very very curious to see made well. Honestly, I know the failings of small booksellers as well as anyone, and it’d be good to see them articulated. But that’s not what this essay was. Let’s look at it. All of it. In detail.
I’ll be interjecting my thoughts into the text of the essay itself. I know that’s a pretty ungenerous way to go about it, but as you’ll see, Mr. Manjoo is kind of an asshat, so I’m not feeling generous.