Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Um ... fish have testicles?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Shortly thereafter, a tragic misjudgment left me with a big blank wall facing my bed. A big blank wall the color of despair. Not only am I a delicate soul with a highly attuned aesthetic sensibility, I spend a lot more time in bed than most people. What to do?
One of my prized possessions is a diminutive New Zealand mountainscape by my old friend Leila. (She's the one who designed the Jackals logo.) The little painting has been much admired by visitors, and after migrating around the Holler for a while, it found a permanent home next to my bed, where its verdant splash lifts my spirits every day. So I wrote Leila to ask what else she had.
She offered several, all of which I liked. Many of her paintings are inspired by her travels, and the one that spoke to me the most was a landscape from Kauai. Unfortunately, it was another wee work. So Leila, ever amenable, offered to try recreating it on a larger scale. You can see what you think, she said. No pressure.
We tore the package open as soon as it arrived and were instantly smitten. The picture draws you in, inviting exploration. Months later, I'm still noticing new aspects.
I'll never set foot in Hawaii or New Zealand, but I visit them every day.
Like it? You can see more of Leila's work here.
Thanks to Mom for funding the "vacation."
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
as the 44th U.S. president on January 20 in Washington, D.C.
(Doug Mills-Pool/Getty Images)
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
When we redid the kitchen, we got a Jenn-Air range with a warming drawer and thought: We have arrived. The drawer is nice to have, but we don't use it as much as we expected. When Dan pulled it open the other day, he was startled to find a roasting pan, then horrified to realize it was dirty.
"Is that from Thanksgiving?" he gasped.
Alas, we'll never know.
* Wait ... On second thought, it might be methane.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Traffic was surprisingly light, and even parking was OK. The feeling on the street was almost electric. I've lived in and around Washington most of my life, but I'd never sensed anything like this before - not even when Bill Clinton was first elected. People were smiling, which is just not a common sight here. The only discordant note was the heavy police presence. They were everywhere: on the street, in the sky, down below in the tunnel.
I'm not sure burning sage can clear away eight years of bad juju, but we were certainly enthusiastic. Kate was joined by a lesbian rabbi, a shaman, and a magnificent singer, all deeply engaging to our ebullient crowd.
A different type of catharsis was playing out on the other side of the circle, where people gleefully hurled shoes at a giant inflatable Dubya. And sage wasn't the only substance aglow: on the way there, we passed an idling black Town Car that reeked of pot. Poppy and Bar, no doubt.
Despite wool socks, schlong johns, fleece, etc., I froze my withered hiney off and enjoyed today's festivities from the warmth and comfort of our living room. But I'm glad I was lured out for a couple of chilly hours to get a little taste of something that feels like a revolution.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
No punches pulled. Check out No. 43.
From Kristine, who keeps her own list.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Some people collect coins, some prowl the Internet for vintage guitars; I know a woman with a closet full of antique Kewpie-doll heads. I'm not totally clear what turned her against everything from the neck down -- she may have been frightened by a Barbie breast as a child.
But I'm nobody to judge, because I, too, am a collector. What I collect are slights, digs, withering remarks, and the occasional mean-girl glare. I examine a good ... story from every angle, I trade them with friends, I commit them to memory, I savor them for eternity.
Lisa Kogan is my kind o' gal.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Panera's disclaimer? "Our tuna salad is made off-site."
I guess it didn't arrive on foot.
on the west coast of Ireland for a climactic scene in the MGM film
Ryan's Daughter, 1970. The camera is equipped with a specially
designed plexiglass window that rotates at high speed to prevent
sea spray from fogging the lens. (Archive Photos/Getty Image)
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Pearl Golden Lake
Sapphire and Diamond Tubbs (twins)
Roberta Steel Bell
Katherine Gray Lamp
Hazel Gray Berry
Curlie Spell Green
Sylvan B. Green
Lisa Poos Green
Theldine Dowless Flattum
Fleeks "Butch" Hazel II
Oakey E. Nolley
William S. Penn
Warren F. Harding
John Quincy Adams, economist
Mary L. Martin
Dr. James E. Payne
Barbara Lawless, attorney
Vina Faught, divorcée
(Ms.) Honesty Knight, arrested for lighting up a joint in front of a cop
Don Black, former Ku Klux Klan leader
Thanks to everyone who contributed.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
The time-sweep of these stories, 1929 to 1983, may have altered Tintin's attitudes but never his appearance. He remains about 16 throughout. But then, as we all know, gay men don't age as others do. He was probably moisturising.Source
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
The week before Christmas, dogged by a mysterious and persistent sore throat, I made an appointment with a specialist. I'd never seen him before, nor had he been recommended; he was one of two nearby ENTs approved by my insurance company, and he could see me pronto. That should have been a clue. Oh, and his name was Dr. Amini. I hoped desperately that his first name was Idi. Alas, it was Massoud.
His office did not inspire confidence. It was in a high-rise suburban apartment building that was decades past its prime - if in fact it ever had one. The corridors smelled of boiled vegetables and weary resignation.
My spirits sank further when I saw the waiting room with its random mishmash of battered furniture clustered awkwardly around the perimeter like kids at a junior-high dance. The walls were graced by some of the ugliest landscapes I'd ever seen - and I've stayed in plenty of cheap motels. They were, of course, mounted in wildly baroque frames, the faux gilt applied with a heavy hand.
I was engrossed in a copy of The Virginia Sportsman magazine when something caught my eye and I glanced up to see a wraith drift eerily past. With a shudder, I realized he was the doctor.
A few minutes later I was called back, and the impression was even more chilling up close. Part of it was his advanced age, but far more disturbing was his cadaverous pallor. The man was actually gray. As my eyes roved the room, looking at anything but Dr. Death, I noticed that all of his equipment seemed as old and worn out as its owner. By that point I didn't much care about my throat; I just wanted to get out of there.
The spookiest thing was that he murmured "You'll be all right" three times during our encounter. It had honestly never occurred to me that I might not recover from a sore throat. Until I met him.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
middle of a lake on Epiphany Day, January 6, 2009. It is believed that
the man who is the first to grab the cross, thrown into the water by an
Eastern Orthodox priest, will be healthy throughout the new year.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Has it really been all that bad? Have we been too hard on the poor schlub? Does Bush really deserve such white-hot derision and international contempt? Or is he just lost and misunderstood, like a sad clown with a big shotgun and an unfortunate muscle spasm?Mark Morford wonders if there's a brighter side to the Bush legacy.
It crossed my mind that it might be a fun hobby to attend strangers' funerals, sitting quietly in the back, perhaps weeping softly if the mood struck. I figured I'd either slip out before anyone could ask questions or pretend to be too grief stricken to respond.
Sadly, I never followed through. Yet another forlorn cultivar in the weedy garden of regret that is my life.
Thanks to Ann-Maree for reminding me of this abandoned dream.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Friday, January 02, 2009
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Maybe you are wondering why I am addressing you in such a casual way? Probably not, as we all know you're not the biggest thinker in town. And, you really do have appalling manners.
But, in case you are wondering, here is the deal: you are not my President. You never were. To give you such respect would be a slap in the face to the many great humans who have done so much for our country.
George, you really shit the bed these last eight years. What an amazing reel of blunders you have left us with.
My brain still hurts from your inability to pronounce the word 'nuclear' correctly. And how about that time you stood on the American Flag, you know, on the anniversary of 9/11? Jesus, dude, what were you thinking?
I will not miss you. And I will never, ever forgive you for starting the war in Iraq. How you sleep at night is beyond me. May the rest of your years be haunted by the ghosts of so many innocent lives lost.
Ride 'em, cowboy. You dick.
Dear Mr. President,
I hope one day you will direly need America's help, only to have her turn her back to you. That would feel just.
Dear Mr. President,
I'm glad to see America finally getting rid of a terrorist.