Not so far away, there’s a blonde in her middle sixties who can rock tight contemporary jeans better than the teenager up the block. She is, of course, spoken for. Even if she weren’t, though, I have no business even mentioning it.
Archive for Ventually
There’s something fundamentally wrong with a tax code that routinely costs ordinary people many hours and dollars every single year, and not just for taxes either.
I had no idea I was even heading in this direction; I’m as surprised as you are. Maybe more so.
Once upon a time, fashion was intended to serve the time-honored function of making sure that boy meets girl. (There always were, and still are, other combinations possible, but they require a bit more specialization, or so it seems to me.) Today, the dynamic is utterly different.
There was a time when people would think to themselves “You know, this job sucks,” but then pushed that thought out of their minds and finished the job, because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
That time was, um, earlier this week.
There are times, admittedly not often, when you might actually want to vote for an incumbent. This is one of those times.
No, I’m not going all Trent Reznor all of a sudden. But damn, I don’t remember being this fragile.
Consider this a brief summation of what goes through your head as you desperately search for ways to keep this old clunker running for just a few more weeks. And by “you,” I of course mean “me.”
Shorter version: if “people” = “yes” than “it” = “not appropriate.” If it gets complicated after that, well, so do people.
If I understand things correctly — and who says I do? — it won’t actually be finished so long as I’m breathing.
Remember when the holidays weren’t politicized to a fare-thee-well? Well, I do.
Where did it come from? What did it mean? And why is it sitting on my desk?
There is friendship, and there is magic. And there are times when it might take the latter to bring about the former.
An insufficiently mild horror story of teddy bears and piano teachers.
There is a finite period between the time the leaves start to fall and the time the trees are completely bare. I have no idea how long that might be.
Young whippersnapper aspires to give advice to the old pro; the old pro declines, most ungraciously.
In which the timelines of Twilight Sparkle and Joe Walsh somehow are made to intersect. Admittedly, neither of them drive, but that’s not the important thing.
You think you’re having problems with that damned government health-care site? You should see what I have to put up with.
Yet another collection of things I don’t entirely comprehend because they’re so damned screwy.
Sometimes life is one damn thing after another; other times it’s several damn things at once.
In 1976, Cliff Richard put out an album — his twentieth, not including compilations and side projects — cheekily titled I’m Nearly Famous.
Which, coincidentally, is about the way I’d describe myself.
A Brit this week explained why he’d just as soon not see any more Page 3 girls, which prompted some thoughts, and admittedly unexcited thoughts at that, about the current issue of Playboy.
Maybe I’m getting all worked up over nothing — or maybe I’m not.