"I can feel death's clammy hand on my shoulder.
Wait ... that's my hand."Abe Simpson
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Sign Language
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Gore-y Details
A warm, cozy interview in which Gore Vidal reflects on fellow writers:
Special bonus: An equally charming Q&A from The Times.
"Capote I truly loathed. The way you might loathe an animal. A filthy animal that has found its way into the house."His mother:
"She was a shit." He pauses. "A drunken shit."And other happy topics.
Special bonus: An equally charming Q&A from The Times.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Queer Company
Thursday, June 26, 2008
States of Disarray
The country's coming apart at the seams; try to make sense of it.
I got 90 percent. What about you?
Source
I got 90 percent. What about you?
Source
Her Future Ex
I can totally empathize with this woman's dilemma:
An Indianapolis woman calls to say she had a great first date with a doctor, but was horrified to hear him suggest they meet at an expresso shop. She asks for dating advice: Should she correct the guy, keep quiet about this mispronunciation, or just hope he never orders espresso again? Would you go out on a second date with someone who orders a cup of EX-presso?From Peggy.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Today's Top Story
I wish I had a baby so I could name it something topical, like Oppressive Humidity or Four-Dollar-a-Gallon Gas. Or are you supposed to stick with sports? I like Augusta National. Or Legg Mason, née Virginia Slims.
From Anne.
Steady As They Go
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I Know I Am
What about you?
Sometime last year, Dan and I were having a glass of wine with my stepmother and an old friend of hers. I've forgotten how the topic arose, but we were startled to discover (at least I was) that we each had some peculiar habitual tics that we'd held onto since childhood.
At the time it was a strangely comforting revelation. If three largely sane people had their own little quirks, perhaps I wasn't such a freak after all. It wasn't until later that I thought of another explanation: Maybe everyone is nuts.
You might reach the same conclusion after visiting this site. It's simultaneously hilarious and pathetic, inviting and repellent, heaven and hell. It's riveting, and it's addictive. You've been warned.
Thanks to Terry.
Sometime last year, Dan and I were having a glass of wine with my stepmother and an old friend of hers. I've forgotten how the topic arose, but we were startled to discover (at least I was) that we each had some peculiar habitual tics that we'd held onto since childhood.
At the time it was a strangely comforting revelation. If three largely sane people had their own little quirks, perhaps I wasn't such a freak after all. It wasn't until later that I thought of another explanation: Maybe everyone is nuts.
You might reach the same conclusion after visiting this site. It's simultaneously hilarious and pathetic, inviting and repellent, heaven and hell. It's riveting, and it's addictive. You've been warned.
Thanks to Terry.
Out Back
What's old is new again. Or so they say.
My great-aunt in France had only one toilet, and it was outside, in a shed off the kitchen. It was dark, stuffy, smelly, and often hot/cold/damp, depending on the weather. And then there were the spiders ...
If you had to pee at night, as children often do, it meant going downstairs, bumping through several overcrowded rooms, and wrestling open a sticky door and a heavy set of shutters. (The French barricade their homes at night as if the Germans might come back while they're asleep.) Usually it was easier just to piss in the bidet, which was conveniently located in the bathroom. Upstairs. By the bedrooms. That's right: the bathroom had a bidet but not a toilet.
My great-aunt in France had only one toilet, and it was outside, in a shed off the kitchen. It was dark, stuffy, smelly, and often hot/cold/damp, depending on the weather. And then there were the spiders ...
If you had to pee at night, as children often do, it meant going downstairs, bumping through several overcrowded rooms, and wrestling open a sticky door and a heavy set of shutters. (The French barricade their homes at night as if the Germans might come back while they're asleep.) Usually it was easier just to piss in the bidet, which was conveniently located in the bathroom. Upstairs. By the bedrooms. That's right: the bathroom had a bidet but not a toilet.
After decades of inconvenience, my aunt eventually moved to a place with a fully equipped indoor bathroom. And then she died.
Thanks to Riley for the article.
Thanks to Riley for the article.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Inka Dinka Don't
There's a video at the bottom if you can stomach it. I thought I saw a Marion Barry tat flash by, but on reflection I decided it was likelier James Brown. My favorites were the ones that read I'm Awsome and Fuck the Systsem.
Nothing is sadder than a tattoo on elderly flesh, though ink on the morbidly obese is almost as whorrifying. And then there's the girl with Hardcore stamped on her chest and what appears to be an advanced, untreated case of herpes around her mouth. Eesh.
Source
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Noteworthy Names
Harry Beans
Shamont Coon
Velva Jo Creech
Girlie Mae Schana
Lesbia Miller
Bunnie Pettus
Laddie Suk
Ginger Brown
Amber Vial
Lance Greathouse
Earl King
Royal Buyer
Pearl Bland
Pearl Flowers
Bonny Flowers
Linda Bonita
Penny Chance
Patsy Dance
Tequila Cheeks (sister: Dequila)
Norman "Snorky" Schlorb
Felicidoll Thomas
Sandy Whorunewayz
Gift Mahlakametsa
Saint Madam McCollough
Deaconess Daisy Mae Faggins
Angel Fish
Darius and Darrius Grant (brothers)
Merlin Smart
Merlyn McPhatter
Sherry Spittle
Katie Crotty-Kretzer
Notie Magnolia Outlaw
Summer Wang
Spurgeon Johnson
Virginia Cumming Tester
Gusta Fuss
Cloyce I. Spinks
Wiley Wattleton
Roosevelt Ford
Elmus Dowdy, Jr.
Carkashia Withers
Ida Trulove
J. Christian Swindal
Pretenders
Tony Curtis, real estate agent
Mario Lopez, house painter
Daniel Craig
Jean Harris
Betty Davis
C. Thomas Howe
Judith Light
Michael Moore, contractor
Erin Moran
Johnny Glenn (brother: Johnny L. Glenn)
Thomas Paine
Richard Rodgers, folklorist
Michael C. Fox
Shamont Coon
Velva Jo Creech
Girlie Mae Schana
Lesbia Miller
Bunnie Pettus
Laddie Suk
Ginger Brown
Amber Vial
Lance Greathouse
Earl King
Royal Buyer
Pearl Bland
Pearl Flowers
Bonny Flowers
Linda Bonita
Penny Chance
Patsy Dance
Tequila Cheeks (sister: Dequila)
Norman "Snorky" Schlorb
Felicidoll Thomas
Sandy Whorunewayz
Gift Mahlakametsa
Saint Madam McCollough
Deaconess Daisy Mae Faggins
Angel Fish
Darius and Darrius Grant (brothers)
Merlin Smart
Merlyn McPhatter
Sherry Spittle
Katie Crotty-Kretzer
Notie Magnolia Outlaw
Summer Wang
Spurgeon Johnson
Virginia Cumming Tester
Gusta Fuss
Cloyce I. Spinks
Wiley Wattleton
Roosevelt Ford
Elmus Dowdy, Jr.
Carkashia Withers
Ida Trulove
J. Christian Swindal
Pretenders
Tony Curtis, real estate agent
Mario Lopez, house painter
Daniel Craig
Jean Harris
Betty Davis
C. Thomas Howe
Judith Light
Michael Moore, contractor
Erin Moran
Johnny Glenn (brother: Johnny L. Glenn)
Thomas Paine
Richard Rodgers, folklorist
Michael C. Fox
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Words to Live By
Doesn't work. Believe me; I've tried. Maybe it's because:Just as a snake sheds its skin, we must
shed our past over and over again.
As bad a Quaker as I am, I'd be an even worse Buddhist. Still, I find it soothing to read the teachings. It's like eating a bowl of fortune cookies, but without the calories.Karma means you don't get away with anything.
From Kyra.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Enchanted Forest
I'm surprised this wasn't on the itinerary when my uncle took me to Barcelona.
One of the highlights of that trip was a stroll down a street of ancient hookers plying their drooping wares. Women in their 50s and 60s, maybe even older. Out of the entire poignant tableau, what I remember most clearly was the father who'd brought his young son. To paraphrase Sandra Bernhard: It was a picture Norman Rockwell forgot to paint.
Thanks to Riley for sparking this glamorous reverie.
One of the highlights of that trip was a stroll down a street of ancient hookers plying their drooping wares. Women in their 50s and 60s, maybe even older. Out of the entire poignant tableau, what I remember most clearly was the father who'd brought his young son. To paraphrase Sandra Bernhard: It was a picture Norman Rockwell forgot to paint.
Thanks to Riley for sparking this glamorous reverie.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Monday, June 02, 2008
Waste Management
A Different Kind of Hybrid
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Scarred for Life
I thought the real Christopher Walken was scary, but this version makes my flesh crawl. This one's my favorite.
Source
Source
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