An embarrassment of riches…
…and the distant thunder of frost. Ack! Mums!
Life is good. And colorful.
No no no no no I don’t want to step out on the glass carbuncle on the Sears Tower observation deck. But be my guest, dear.
I have an early interview, followed by my Russian lesson, and as sometimes happens, I find myself with nothing prepared. Well, there’s this — an iPhone picture I took last night on my bike ride:
Isn’t that pretty? If only I’d had my better camera.
So, any bloggage from the night’s web-crawling? Not a lot:
Ben Stein, please shut up.
Yet another 1969 anniversary rolling around: The Manson family murders. Jezebel checks in on the ladies, sees what they’re up to.
Back in the afternoon, but I don’t know when. Behave yourselves.
Mama loves her some buskers.
Twenty minutes! That’s all the time I have before I have to hit the ground running, and I really should wash my face and put on a bra first, so make that…15 minutes! Let’s bunt this post with a cleanout of my iPhone photos, stupid picture-notebook stuff I’ve been carrying around thinking this might make a blog item, but probably won’t. (And usually doesn’t.) But maybe when we combine them, we can get a much bigger lame-ass blog. Let’s find out. First, a Proustian memory-prod:
Pyramids of this stuff were stacked in the window of my local paint store, which I don’t visit often, but it’s next door to the bakery, which I do. It went up around the end of the school year, and even though this area doesn’t do much in the way of student rentals, there’s something about this no-nonsense product — “Detroit’s Original”? Really? — that conjures up memories of end-of-term moving day, of packing the boxes and suitcases and carrying them to the truck. The stuff you thought was so important in September turned out to be not-so-much; in fact, September is a distant memory. You leave behind a few loose papers, maybe some hangers in the closet. Soon the painters will be here with five gallons of Detroit’s Original Xtra Hide Apartment Flat, and that will be the end of your chapter in this place.
OK, so not exactly a madeleine. Let’s move on.
I have so many stories that begin “I knew the newspaper business was finished when…” that I really look like an idiot. If I knew, why didn’t I leave when I had the chance? Answer: Because I’m lazy and inert, and suck at everything else. But here’s one of those I-knew moments, in the Pets aisle at Target:
Do you realize, in a few more years, reporters won’t be able to make jokes about their work today being used to housebreak dogs tomorrow? It’ll be like the expression “dropping a dime.” What’s that? A pay phone? And it once cost a dime? Why didn’t they use Skype, grandpa? Shaddup, kid.
Finally, I’ve seen several of these vehicles around town in the last couple years:
They have signs on posts, too, but at least two and maybe three white vehicles — I’ve seen an SUV and this van — with the same message. SOMEONE KILLED R*SA, and dammit, they’re going to let the world know about it. (I don’t dare use this woman’s name, as I suspect they troll Google every 30 minutes, and the last mailing list I want to be on is theirs.) I went to the website, and it appears they do have a valid complaint; patients should not fall off the table in the cath lab. Nevertheless, it’s possible to view this as cruel and unusual punishment for poor Dr. B*rman.
And now it’s been 15 minutes, and I must begone. Begone! And have a swell day.
The Obamas have some competition in the T-shirt aisle.
Smells like onions.
I looked around for Coozledad, but I think he was back at the production facility.
Big slab o’ beeswax, $45.
