Tuesday, October 31, 2006

This is our jack-o-lantern, carved with an abundance of seasonal zeal by the gals and myself early in the month. Or more precisely, this was our jack-o-lantern. Our climate isn't kind to carved vegetables. I've seen the balmy temperatures and thick humidity reduce more than one noble pumpkin to a gooey orange puddle long before Halloween arrived. Many don't make it beyond a week. This one served admirably for the better part of two, but when it slowly began to collapse and the inside developed a thick coat of furry mold bearing an unpleasant resemblance to our house after the storm, we decided its time had come. It seemed like the right thing to do.

The Worst Halloween Costume

As mandated by the Equal Time Rule, I will now describe the worst Halloween costume I can recall:

We were at a smallish Halloween party at someone's house. It was the first of several stops our gaggle was making that evening. Everyone was dressed up. (I think I was Jughead.) We were all chatting and drinking. This one guy we didn't know was dressed as a flasher: a trench-coat; bare, hairy shins; socks and shoes. He walked up to our group.

"You want me to flash you?"

"Sure." We braced ourselves for some wacky over-sized phallus or similar gag.

He actually just flashed us...

Everyone laughed. A little too hard. Then people stopped laughing. Then everyone felt a little weird.

It was too authentic. It felt like his elaborate and outrageous joke was actually an elaborate and creepy ruse to expose himself to strangers without getting arrested. When his wife (yeah, she was there too) rolled her eyes and informed us that he'd done this same thing other years, our suspicion seemed all the more likely.

After a bit, we moved on to the next party.

My Favorite Halloween Costume

My favorite Halloween costume was when I dressed as Evel Knievel. It was completely ridiculous—an absurd confluence of generally American-ish-themed items that I'd found at the Salvation Army that afternoon: some sort of star-spangled sweatshirt; vaguely-matching, radically-undersized pants that wound up looking more like capris; a too-small bicycle helmet (all helmets are too small for my giant noggin) that I embellished with magic-marker stars; and my "ride," a crappy $8 kid's bike—also red, white and blue. It was a beautiful ensemble, if I do say so.

Sarah and Ana maintained the wheeled theme, going as 70s roller girls attired in outdated items also found at the Salvation Army and shod with genuine old-school white ankle-high roller skates. The hair was flipped. The pants were too tight. They knew the moves. They had it down.

The party that night was in a large warehouse, which perfectly suited our shenanigans. I traced figure-eights on my bad-ass-mobile. The gals glided around the perimeter. As the evening progressed and the empty beer cans accumulated, the antics became more foolish. The roller girls progressed to more advanced maneuvers. I built a small ramp and jumped various items including my "lovely assistant," a raggedy-ass little doll also purchased that afternoon, and, eventually, small flaming objects. (This was quickly stopped by the owner of the warehouse.)

The band played their song, "Evel Knievel." (Weird, huh?) Some guy asked me if I would do my "Evel Knievel thing" at one of his band's gigs. The empty beer cans continued to mount, and the evening began its gradual descent. More prudent people went home. My bike was eventually abandoned in some corner. Finally, in the wee hours, the festivities came to an abrupt halt when Sarah took a spill, and we had to go to the nearby emergency room with what we thought (but was fortunately not) a broken wrist.

Oh, well. All's well that ends in the emergency room. It was good while it lasted. And the costumes were A-1.

My second favorite costume was when I dressed as Bob's Big Boy (or Shoney's Big Boy if you're from my neck of the woods). I had it just right: big, wide-legged painter's pants that I had stenciled with the appropriate check pattern; red suspenders; a white t-shirt printed with the words, "BIG BOY" (in the correct font, of course); and a gallon of dippity-doo in my hair, piling it into a perfect pompadour. We went out. There was another Big Boy. (What are the chances?) His outfit was crap—overalls (overalls?!) with hand-drawn checks and a sloppily written "BIG BOY"—absolute crap. Trash was talked. Big Boys were restrained. The evening proceeded without further incident.

I must concede my rival one advantage, though. My build is not precisely Big Boy material. He had the physique down pat. Next time I'll have to plan a few months ahead and do the appropriate all-Shoney's-all-the-time-weight-gain-regime to really seal the deal.

Monday, October 30, 2006

"In Good Taste"

So I got the official email inviting us to wear Halloween costumes to work tomorrow. But it stipulates that the costumes must be "in good taste. Nothing risqué or revealing or offensive please."

Damn. I wish they'd told us before I spent all that money on a sexy-Hitler costume.

Slim's Concentric Meat Atrocities

These days, everybody knows what a turducken is, the freakish Thanksgiving Franken-entrée consisting of a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken, first brought to monstrous life right here in Southern Louisiana. (If you haven't heard of it, I recommend you crawl out from under whatever morbidly obese chef you've been living beneath and read a fluffy, holiday themed periodical once in a while.) The turducken is undoubtedly a fine and decadent creation, a noble holiday beast, bringing freakish meaty goodness to any table it graces. But is the turducken the final word in carnivorian excess? We here at Slim's Concentric Meat Atrocities don't think so. And that is why, for the truly indulgent gourmand, we have spawned the following premium creations:

The Cowoatamb. Kick it up a notch with this decadent treat: a lamb, stuffed inside a goat, stuffed inside a cow. Momma didn't cook like this!
- $2,300

The Hibrazelle. Really want to wow the crowd? Bring a taste of Africa to the table with this exotic item: a gazelle, stuffed inside a zebra, stuffed inside a hippo. Mmm... poach-a-licious!

The Blerma: For the customer who must have the best, no other item will do. Make a statement with this exclusive offer, this pinnacle of meat-stuffing achievement: an orca, stuffed inside a sperm whale, stuffed inside a blue whale. Screw Greenpeace. Life is good. You deserve it.
- $4,800,000
(Requires 6 months advance notice and the passage of legislation repealing several international whaling moratoria. Limited quantity available. ORDER NOW!)

For all orders received before November 1, we will send include a free Slim's Offal Surprise Holiday Goody Basket.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Friday, October 27, 2006

What Alignment Were the Flying Monkeys in The Wizard of Oz?

The flying monkeys of the Wizard of Oz, properly known as Winged Monkeys, are Lawful Neutral. They will obey anyone, good or evil, so long as the individual is wearing the Golden Cap. (I refer, of course, to the authentic series of events as recounted in the book, not the fictionalized Hollywood tripe served up in the movie.) Morality is of no consequence to them. Strict adherence to the wearer of the Cap is their only guiding principal.

Some have asserted that Winged Monkeys are inherently good and were merely the victims of an unfortunate spell cast by the Wicked Witch. This view, though popular, is incorrect and easily refuted by a careful examination of the historical record. The "spell," as is now commonly recognized by Oz historians, was a legal stratagem, designed by the Winged Monkeys' legal defense team, to secure them immunity in criminal tribunals held after the collapse of the Witch's regime.

The truth is far simpler. Winged monkeys, like all monkeys, will obey anyone with a shiny object on their head. It's just in their nature.

Q & A

Man, I Totally Slayed That Elevator!

So we were standing in the elevator, me and a bunch of guys. The doors were closing, and someone else was coming. One of the guys swung his leg up to catch the sensors and open the door. You know what I said? You know what I said?
"You should be a Rockette."
It went over like dynamite! It went over so good, the guy next to me rephrased it, and repeated it: "What are you, trying out for the Rockettes?" It spawned a whole series of a Rockettes-related jokes: "Hey man, just don't put your arm around me and expect me to kick along with you." Pure dynamite!

You have my permission to use it in any appropriate situation (so long as you credit me, of course).

Do You Believe That Aristotle Wrote a (Lost) Treatise on Comedy?

No. Not only do I not believe it, I know for a fact he did not. Aristotle wrote nothing (he was, sadly, illiterate), and the writings commonly attributed to him are, in fact, the work of the Earl of Oxford.

The Earl, however, did write a lost treatise on comedy, though "lost" is, perhaps, not quite the word, since it has been in plain sight this entire time. (Simply read The Taming of the Shrew backwards, and you will see what I mean.)

Q & A

Thursday, October 26, 2006

What is that?

I'll kick off the questions. As previously mentioned, I'm not such a big beer guy (cocktails are more my thing), but I do sometimes like a beer, and I've realized that there is one specific style of beer I'm particularly partial to. The trouble is, I don't know what to call it, nor do I possess the terminology to properly describe it. Barley? Hops? They mean very little to me. Does this beer-breed have a proper name? I don't know.

So I'm turning to you, the big beer guys and gals out there (and I know there are some), for help. What do I call this thing?

I've had various beers that fall into this category, but I've forgotten what most of them were. There's only one concrete example I can give: Sapporo. Again, I'm completely ignorant of official terminology, but I would say it's light and extremely dry and sort of sharp and distinctly bitter—that very specific bitter taste that all the beers I'm talking about possess—and that's it. No berries or floral overtones or chocolate or warm nuttiness or anything else.

What is that? Does it have a name? Is it a lager? But I've had other lagers that don't taste like that. What other beers fall into this category? What is that?

Q & A


I'd like to open up the floor for questions—any topic you want: evil monkeys, good monkeys, chaotic neutral monkeys, evil apes, chaotic neutral apes (there are no good apes), string theory, the String Cheese Incident, film theory, the Film Cheese Incident—you name it. If I don't know the answer, I'll be more than happy to make one up.

Monday, October 23, 2006

You'll Sell Your House in Hell!

The house on the corner is for sale. There is, as is the custom, a "For Sale" sign in front. It's a pretty typical sign:

It says, "For Sale." It's got a name, some phone numbers, a picture of a house... a picture of a house... a picture of a house… Unholy crap! What in Satan's name is that?!

I'm not 100% on this, but I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to understand from this that Alyssa Preston is a demon. Now, I'm not prejudiced or anything—I fully support a demon's right to pursue any career he or she wants, real estate agent included—but does one really want to advertise the fact? Is it an effective marketing technique?

Well, maybe: "If you do not buy this house, I will flay you alive! I will wrench your beating heart from your chest and gnash it betwixt my fearsome teeth! I will drink your blood in a goblet crafted from your skull! I will build a comfortable armchair from your bones, where I will sit and listen to the eternal screams of your damned soul! And did I mention it has a jacuzzi?"

Whatever works, I guess.

"Gimme Some Corn, Man. I'm Happy."

The sheep on our farm all have plastic ear tags with numbers on them so we know who they are. I've been waiting for the day when these ear tags are adopted by punk culture as a fashion accessory, punched through the earlobe like an earring. ("We're all sheep, man, just doing what the system tells us. Gimme some corn, man. I'm happy. But we're all being lead to the slaughter—to.. the... slaughter!")

It hasn't happened yet. (Or, at least, I haven't seen it.) What's up with that?

When Did That Happen?

Is it just me, or do people not talk much about flying saucers anymore? And I don't mean aliens. I don't mean space ships. I mean flying saucers. What's up with that?

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Backwards Day

I wore my underwear backwards all day yesterday. It wasn't intentional. I discovered it at work when I went to the restroom and encountered certain logistical complexities... at which point, without awkward and excessive shenanigans, I was pretty much committed to the configuration. So I wore my underwear backwards all day yesterday.

Quit laughing at me.


Sarah was at the mall, and she walked into forever21, her source for sassy, inexpensive, poorly manufactured clothing. As she entered, she stepped in shit—human shit.

It was subsequently determined that the source of the offending substance was, most likely, a recently departed (and, obviously, poorly secured) toddler. I suppose that, somehow, makes it better. Child poo is, by some deeply ingrained poo-metric formula, better than adult poo. But really, it's not what one is looking for when one is shopping for sassy, inexpensive, poorly manufactured clothing.

They were kind enough to provide her with paper towels.

And so, as all food ends in feces, food week ends in inconclusive and unpleasant stories about feces. We have arrived, so to speak, at the end of the line. Good night.

Friday, October 20, 2006

Honey Bear

June has developed a strong affection for our honey bear, the clear-plastic bear-shaped flip-top thing that the honey comes in. She has taken to toting it around the house and becomes violently enraged if anyone—God forbid!—actually tries to use any of the honey.

Touch Your Doughnut

You know what I don't like? I don't like that guy in the break room fingering his way through every doughnut in the box before selecting the one he wants. I don't want pre-touched doughnuts. Touch your own damn doughnut, Mr. Doughnut Toucher Man.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Joe Eats a Sandwich

I can't deny that we're deviating from the Big, Very Exciting Concept. Oh, well... When I said you're the boss, I lied. I'm the boss. No, scratch that. Bruce Springsteen is the Boss. I'm the Honcho, El Honcho Slimbo. Any scrap of power I throw your way is merely a diversion from the man behind the curtain. It is I who pull the strings and make this evil blog-machine dance its wicked dance.

And that sandwich thing makes me laugh.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

My Perfect Casamento's Meal

Food Week! Food Week! Food Week! Food Week!*

I've been struggling for a while to figure out my perfect Casamento's** meal, and I think I've finally got it:
Oysters. What's there to say? A squeeze of lemon, a dollop of horseradish, a dash of Louisiana Hot Sauce, slurped off the shell—one of the best things in life. We order a dozen. Sarah eats a few, and the rest are mine, all mine!

A cup of gumbo. Mine is better (forgive the horn-tooting), but theirs is still good—seafood with a touch of tomato. It's very rich, and a bowl is too much, but a cup is just fine...

A lettuce and tomato salad. Iceberg lettuce gets a bad rap. I like it. And a bit of greenery—even if it is pale greenery—provides a pleasant contrast to the richness of the other items.

A grilled cheese sandwich. You might think this is an odd choice, and you might be right, but it works. And it comes with a pickle.

Stolen bits of batter fried catfish and shrimp. As my aunt would say, "they fry beautifully!" A big heap of fried seafood isn't my thing, but the little bits I nab from the gals are quite lovely.

Abita beer. Time was, this slot would have been held by Dixie. This, sadly, has not been an option since the storm, though the latest word is that a return is imminent (at least to the shelves of Dorignac's). For the present, Abita rises to the challenge and does an a-okay job of washing everything down.

Dessert? Drive across town to Brocato's.
Each element is quite lovely in it's own right, but collectively they form a harmonious unison of glory and delight, a symphony of delectable delirium, that's pretty hard to beat.

Damn, now I'm hungry. When are they open again?

* I like that Food Week wasn't planned but just kind of happened.

** For my local compadres, Casamento's requires no explanation, but allow me a few words for those of you in the great beyond. Casamento's is old. It's long and narrow and decorated like a 1920s bathroom—floor to ceiling white tiles. If you don't arrive at the moment they open, you'll probably have to wait, but as you stand shoulder to shoulder with other latecomers, you'll enjoy the remarkable diversion of watching the oyster shucker ply his mysterious craft. They're closed a lot. The oysters are wonderful, and everything else is very good. The staff is slow but likable. The third best thing after the food and the atmosphere is that, to get to the bathrooms, you have to walk through the kitchen, past a burly, bearded, sleeveless man with a Bluetooth earpiece standing over a large pot of boiling oil where beautiful things happen, and into a little courtyard occupied by various kitchen-y things and an obese cat.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Phở bo.

Vinegar and Salt

In a food-ish vein:

Once, in high school biology, we did an experiment. We were each given a questionnaire and a set of little paper strips coated in a variety of (non-toxic) chemicals. We were asked to taste the strips, one by one, and mark down whether they tasted sweet or salty or bitter or sour, etc.

The answers varied from person to person; the same strip might taste bitter to one person and salty to another. And the results weren't fuzzy. We had decisive and different perceptions of the taste of each one. We learned that the way the taste buds perceive certain substances is genetically determined. We simply don't all taste things exactly the same way.

At the end of the experiment, we tallied up our questionnaire, and the results placed us in one of several "taste groups." (There was probably some technical term, but I don't remember it.) Some taste groups were more common, other less - I was a member of an obscure fringe taste-sect. And the questionnaire explained that members of a given taste group tend to have certain types of preferred foods. As I read the preferred foods for my group - pickles, sauerkraut, pretty much anything with vinegar and salt - I began to salivate, and my stomach rumbled with hunger. They spoke the truth.

So what's today's moral? Science is cool. Stay in school. Never ever question the scientific method, or we will crush you like so many ancient civilizations before you, while chanting "Screw you and the anti-empirical horse you rode in on. Screw you and the anti-empirical horse you rode in on. Screw you and the anti-empirical horse you rode in on..."

Did anyone else do this? Does anyone know what I'm talking about.

Overheard in the Drugstore

"It's been fourteen months. I missed French bread so bad... You couldn't get it in Georgia."
Fits the theme nicely, don't you think?

Monday, October 16, 2006

Food week continues.

"Shrimp, Crawfish, Crabs, and Oysters"

So we were listening to the Saints beat Philadelphia on 870 AM, and an ad for Deanie's Seafood came on. The thick yat accent talked about the four seasons of the year, "You know - shrimp, crawfish, crabs, and oysters." The ad ended with the announcer encouraging you to come on down to Deanie's, where you can buy seafood "like people in Utah buy potatoes."

Is Utah known for its potatoes? I'm pretty sure they meant Idaho.

But I'm also pretty sure if you said to them, "I think you mean Idaho," their response would be "Utah. Idaho. Same difference."

Saturday, October 14, 2006

"A Piece of Cake"

Our friend, a mother of three, including a recently added wee one who wakes up frequently during the night, leaving our friend spacy and grumbly for much of the day, was attending the gymnastics class of child #2. As she sat with a gaggle of other waiting moms, one of them, also the mother of a recently added third, piped up cheerily and went on at length about how "the third one's just a piece of cake," and how smoothly everything's going, and how much energy has, and just generally how peachy everything is.

She was asked, "Aren't you tired? Don't you have to feed during the night?"

"Oh, no... We have a baby nurse."*

Money should come with an instruction manual (one that includes the rule "Don't blather on about the glorious benefits your wealth affords you to precisely those people who are most acutely feeling the absence of the aforementioned glorious benefit"). Some people clearly need it.

* Just to clarify, a baby nurse is the kind individual who you pay to live in your house and get up in the middle of the night and do all the unfun, grueling things that deprive new parents of sleep and render them spacy and grumbly for much of the day.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Overheard in the Park: Giant-Mutant-Lizard-Bugs

"It was long and skinny and had orange stripes. It looked like a cross between some kind of bug and a lizard. I don't know. I think that water did something."
That's going to be the first line of my wretched B-movie horror flick.

The camera pans to the left, zooms in on the storm-grate, then spirals down into the subterranean darkness where murky shadows of giant, post-diluvian monstrosities slither to and fro...

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Pop Quiz: Extremely Extraneous Aerodynamic Accessory Edition

Select the pair that best expresses a relationship similar to that expressed in the original pair.
(A) rot : vegetable
(B) visor : cap
(C) junk : trunk
(D) mullet : head
(E) that pissy acquaintance of yours : dinner party
The winner will receive this totally awesome auto add-on and a mega-mullet-makeover for that pissy acquaintance of yours.

Ask and ye shall receive.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

God Is Great. God Is Juicy.

We were just flipping through the dial and briefly landed on the Christian channel. It was a sort of evangelical, sassy dating show, and one of the women described God as:
"the juiciest lover you'll ever have"
Is that from the Bible? I couldn't find the passage...

Hot Wheels

So maybe we've failed to reach a consensus on whether or not the Subaru Forester is the whitest car around and precisely what percentage of Forester owners listen to "urban" radio, but I think we can all agree that the 1984 Ford Escort is the sexiest car in existence. Just try and argue with that one!

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Something to Chew On

The Roman Chewing Candy cart has long been a fixture of the Uptown landscape, an old, horse-drawn cart, working its way down St. Charles, selling long taffy-ish candies in several flavors. After the storm, like everything else, it went away for a while. Then the cart came back, but the horse didn't. The cart was pulled by a truck - a truck - which was kind of pathetic. And it was distressing, leading one to wonder if and how the horse met its demise.

I'm happy to report that the horse is back, and the Roman Chewing Candy wagon is fully restored to its former, dilapidated glory. But I wonder, where has the horse been and why did it take so long to return? Is the city experiencing a horse-housing shortage? Has the horse been whiling its time away in some substandard stable in Houston or Atlanta, watching CNN, and dreaming of the day it could return to the oak-lined streets it's always known? Hmm...

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Bing Bing Bam Bam

After the travails of the cannon post, I collapsed in a state of nervous exhaustion, and have only now awoken from three days of dreamless slumber. Hello, again. Nice to see you:

Friday night as the full moon rose over downtown and we drove slowly home from dinner at Casamento's and dessert at Angelo Brocato's (yes, they're both open, and life is fine...), we flipped through the radio dial and landed on Q93. As the Gutta Girls "Bing Bing Bam Bam" played, the bass speakers of our newish car throbbed, and I thought These speakers sound pretty good. This led me to wonder how often Subaru Forester stereos get a real low-end workout, because let's face it; Subaru's are about the whitest damn car there is. Damn fine, but also damn white. (Are Volvo's whiter? I actually don't think so.) And this of course led me to ponder what the Venn diagram of Subaru Forester owners and hip-hop radio listeners might look like. I'm pretty sure it would look something like this:

I don't claim we're the only people in that skinny little sliver in the middle, but it sure ain't crowded.

Friday, October 06, 2006

Be Careful What You Ask For

While in Virginia, we visited my cousin who is restoring some of our antiques. He showed us the pieces. We discussed some of the particular issues with flooded furniture. Then the conversation took a turn towards his true passion, Civil War-era cannons. Some of you have foolishly asked to hear more about this. I warned you not to, but you're the boss, so here goes:

When he was a kid he had been incredibly bored in school, and the teacher had sent him to the corner to read reference books, and he had seen a picture of an old cannon and fallen in love with it, and later on, he had trained as an engineer but decided it wasn't for him and had taken up cabinetry and furniture restoration, and in his free time, he now built third or half scale, fully functional replicas of Civil War-era cannons, and he had acquired copies of the diagrams drawn by the original Union engineer who designed the cannons, and as it happens, they're almost exactly one-third scale though he'd had to rescan and slightly alter the size to get an exact match, and although the diagrams existed there was no explanation for why they were designed that way, and he had wanted to understand why, so he was building replicas, and look at that picture - isn't that just the sexiest thing - and here's one of the spokes of the wheel which as you can see is not precisely vertical but is actually at a three and a half degree angle from the hub, which presented a special technical challenge to manufacture, and he spent days trying to duplicate them with little success until he researched the historical methods and learned the appropriate techniques, which were much more effective, although each spoke still takes one and three quarters hours to make because he hand whittles the tapered form, and he showed me a box full of spokes which represented weeks of work, and the reason for the three and a half degree outward radiating angle is that without it, as the wagon traveled over rough terrain, the axle would move laterally and just bust sideways through the wheel, but with the angle, the force is radiated out along the spokes and into the metal-bound rim, which contains it, but this presents another challenge because if the spokes are at a three and a half degree angle, they no longer maintain an optimal vertical load-bearing configuration, so the ends of the axles are actually tapered slightly and the wheel actually slopes outward at a slight angle, and the bottom spokes are oriented perpendicular to the ground while the top spokes are actually at a seven degree angle to the ground, so that if you actually saw one of these wagons from the front you would see the wheels angling out slightly in a v-form, and the cannon is hitched the front wheels, the "limber", with a single joint so the wheels are fully articulated and travel over the rough terrain - because there were very few good roads at the time, there was one over in the Shenandoah valley - without structural damage, and the limber of the cannon carried a metal-wrapped box with shot and gunpowder, and duplicating this presented additional technical challenges, because at one third scale, all the nails will actually split the grain of the wood so he had to drill one hole into the wood slightly smaller than the head of the nail and one whole into the copper slightly larger than the head of the nail, and of course, each box has dozens of nails, and each cannon had several auxiliary wagons travelling with it, carrying supplies and whatnot, and there were several cannons with each unit, and each unit also had a special forge-wagon, and of course, the limber for the forge wagon carried forge supplies, not cannon supplies, and there were special wagons specifically designed for the retrieval and transport of cannon barrels seized from enemy, which were considered important trophies, and the Union had one really genius engineer who designed this curious looking cannon with a bulbous back end that went something like this, and the brilliant thing about this cannon was that the curve of the barrel precisely represents the time/pressure curve as the cannonball travels the length of the barrel where X is time and Y is pressure inside the cannon, so the thickness of the cannon wall and the pressure is perfectly proportional at every point, and...

That'll do for now. Will pick up where we left off tomorrow.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Funky and Hard to Get Rid Of

New Orleans seems to inspire similes (including the infamous "it's like a gumbo" comparison). I'd like to propose a new one. We're like mold*, funky and hard to get rid of. Sure, a strong bleach solution might wipe us out for good. But then again, it might not.

Your assignment for today is to use the analogy three times in casual conversation. I want to hear it in common usage by Monday.

* Très apropos, no?

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Mother Would Approve

Look, Ma! I drew a picture! Of Ignatius Reilly! And a giant hot dog! And a slightly creepy talking parrot! And the good folks at Dirty Coast have slapped it on a bright red beautiful t-shirt and are selling it and you can buy it, and your friends will like it, and you can tell them where to buy it, and they'll thank you and get there own, and they'll tell their friends, and it will be a beautiful thing.

Mother would approve.


We're back from our galloping tour of the mid-Atlantic region. Here are a few of the things we saw:
  • A big family reunion celebrating the 150th "birthday" of our farm.
  • Lots of relatives, some of whom I knew, many of whom I didn't know but kind of pretended to know because I wasn't sure which ones I'd met twenty years ago but forgotten and which ones I really didn't know.
  • Lots of sheep.
  • Lots of old friends.
  • Some very adorable wee ones.
  • Lots of Johnnies (and I'm happy to report that they dress as awfully as always).
  • A lady crabbing, pulling huge, iridescent, green and blue monsters out of the water as they clung greedily to raw chicken necks, then tossing them into a bucket from which they stared furiously up at us, claws at the ready, looking for a fight.
  • Lots of boats.
  • Some of our flood-funked antiques, partially restored to their former glory.
  • Lots of schematics for Civil War-era cannons (don't ask).
  • Three deer.