Sometimes Things Happen While You Are Sleeping
Today is Halloween, which is French for “Let’s all act like toddlers and wear diapers and drink hard cider from sippy-cups. Let’s begin at breakfast.” French is such a beautiful language. In French, I hear, there are more verbs for getting intoxicated than there are verbs for working. The same may actually be true of American English, or any English, for that matter. Perhaps this is just a language thing; people enjoy a conversation or two about The Drank.
This New Puss Is A Licker
The cat sits on my lap and licks my arms. Non-stop. Sandpaper against my shaggy wisps of mannery. She’s a good cat though, definitely fitting the name Lucretia, which is regal, yet can be announced with a snap.
In other news, Bill Clinton is going to dress as the wicked witch for Halloween. Or maybe he’s a sea-sick drag queen. Either way, he’s looking fab-u-lusss!
Potential Banner, For When I’m Smart Enough To Be Able To Affix A Banner To The Top Of This Page
Staying true to the self-centered nature of this blog, the banner will be huge, and, unavoidable, really. (COMMA ALERT.) Banner needs something though. Maybe not.
P.S. I’ve decided this image is way too sassy for me. I just don’t have this kind of ‘tude. But it’s fun to pretend.
Meet Lucretia: She’s A Classy-Ass Bitch
I included the hamburger because I believe it contains the same level of sultriness as Lucretia. Therefore they are like objects, suitable to be e-published in the same line of photos.
Anyway, Lucretia, goddess of Fremont Avenue, was born around three years ago. She is special because she is a calico, which means, as Jordan would say, that she is painted in many wonderful “shocks of color.” (Sidenote: as soon as I can afford an iPhone, I’m going to open a twitter account called JordanSez where I will publicize (exploit) his zaniness.) Point being: Lucretia is a gorgeous creature, one that I now live with. That brings the count to three, folks, which means I’m well on my way to cat-lady status, which I believe is a transcendent state not unlike nirvana, where I will feel neither suffering, desire, nor sense of self. And will likely smell of urine.
The Saint Peezy
The above image is an homage to my home town. Not that I don’t like St. Paul, because I almost do. So, here’s to you, James J. Hill: Captain of industry! Titan of the rails! Builder of our nation–you done something real swell.
What Is The How
Jord: You can’t even see my face.
Mord: That’s why it’s good.
I want to figure out CSS! Then I can put that banner where it belongs. Not where the sun don’t shine. But where it do shine, matter of fact.
Sleep tight.Falcons Take Care of Themselves
Here at IQTE headquarters, we (actually, no, I’m going to start the implausible use of the universal “we” in order to give my lone self the credibility of say, a panel of cultural studies grad students who have identical, simultaneous thoughts) believe that covering food issues is not just a priority, but a responsibility. But every once and a while, a news story comes along that has little to do with food, a story so monumental and idiotic that it deserves coverage in every venue of infotainment. The Balloon Boy is that breed of story.
Opinions? Mine is that the Heene family has done a major service to this country, providing our economically deflated hearts and minds with a fable unmatched in quirkiness. Even the mysterious and ill-timed deaths of Anna Nicole Smith and Michael Jackson look like overused plot-lines next to our young Falcon’s tale. The country was captivated for several hours as we imagined our curious Falcon peering down on earth’s bosom from the entrance of a balloon, giggling with excitement at the wonder that is flight. (Can I point out something obvious here? The kid’s name is falcon. Like the bird. And he was allegedly in a balloon, suspended in the air, much LIKE A BIRD. When I first heard that there was a child adrift over Colorado, and that his name was Falcon, I knew everything was going to be alright, that the earth and the moon and Oprah’s breasts were aligned, and that the situation would magically resolve itself. And it did.) The point is, the Heene parents imagined a masterful story, and they pursued it. They took their tale, their dream, and they turned it into reality, all while providing entertainment and wonder for the world. A boy in a balloon! It hadn’t been done.
Prescribed Nutrients, From A Writer Near You
Earth’s food hero, Michael Pollan, is publishing a book of food rules. As part of his project, he asked NYT readers to submit their personal food beliefs. How fun! The NYT published some of their favorites, complete with splashy graphics!, here. Below are some submissions that didn’t make the cut, but were very close to being published.
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