It’s a year, a number of years, and a time to reflect that there may actually be some crying in baseball — and some laughs, too.
Archive for Ventually
Does this time of year actually suck, or is it just me?
Addendum: A second opinion:
Snow and inclement conditions aside, I think winter gets a bad rap. Believe me, I’m the first to complain when I am forced to grab a plastic shovel and dig my way to freedom. However, if you take away the ice, snow, and slush, winter can be a lazy person’s ticket to paradise. Although it may appear that I am trying to find the silver lining, trust me when I say: I lean more towards lethargic than evolved.
I’m definitely down with that latter point.
Or, “Things stuck together for no reason other than that I happened to be thinking about them this week.”
In fact, the POODLE chews it, and the little bastard needs to be put out of its misery.
(Title from the late Frank Zappa.)
On the off-chance that automakers are going to push self-driving cars with the idea that “Look how much work you can get done during your daily commute!” — well, thanks, but no thanks.
The Mamas and the Papas had a song by this title; it was apparently about a brief affair. This isn’t. Instead, it’s about this:
Just made eye contact with someone with whom I probably should not have.
— Charles G Hill (@dustbury) October 10, 2014
Why shouldn’t I have, you ask? There are places I should not go.
One of the reasons human evolution, as distinguished from the purely technological advances that either decorate or desecrate our lives these days, seems to have slowed to a crawl, if not actually stopped altogether, is that there is apparently no punishment for stupidity. You can imagine what I think of that.
Only three this time around, and two of them are kissing cousins. (Okay, they’re not about cousins, or kissing either, but they did sort of grow up together.) As always, I have my own take on all the measures under consideration, and also the ones that aren’t.
While I’m Clark Kenting around here doing the bloggy stuff, my (not all that) secret identity is churning out pony stories. (They’re on the sidebar, in case you’d somehow missed them.) Turns out, there is historical — and religious — precedent for this sort of thing.
(A tip of the tiara to Fillyjonk, who sent me this idea four days ago and probably wondered if I was going to do anything with it.)
This has nothing to do with Cabaret, or for that matter with cabaret — unless you were hoping someone would invite you.
In which I attempt to answer the question posed by the late Rodney King, with a notable lack of success.
“Or give us death,” Jello Biafra might say. I don’t know if I’d go that far. But I’m back here in the office with the MP3s blasting, and I wonder: why am I not in the living room with the Big Stereo?
New arrivals at the site are often perplexed: “This doesn’t look like any WordPress blog I’ve ever seen.” (In which case, you should see this one, which uses the same theme.) Perhaps your question is answered here.
Price increase, you say? Well, maybe, if you tell me where it’s going.
Does the process of Getting Out The Vote require that you, you know, actually get out once in a while? I’m one of those weird people who thinks it does.
Inoperable prostate cancer killed Frank Zappa at 53. Did he get off easy, so to speak?
It’s no accident that the optical storage medium with the shortest lifespan is the CD-Rewritable. What can we learn from this?
What might Marion Zimmer Bradley, Ike Turner, and Rolf Harris have in common? Answer: They have grievously sinned, and it has cost them some of their fans.
Repeat: some of their fans.
“I couldn’t sleep at all last night,” says the song. I, of course, know it too well.
You remember the old saying, right? “The Internet: where men are men, women are men, and children are FBI agents.” Sometimes I wonder if I remember it too well.
How can you be subjected to peer pressure when you don’t have any peers?
I tend to pay no attention to my dreams unless they’re really off the wall. But what if one of them might be trying to tell me something?
Update, 9 July: Everything apparently came off well.
What can you say about a sixteen-year-old kid who may be dying? And what, as a 60-year-old in tolerable health, can I possibly say?
Update, 9 June: It appears that the kid’s lease on life is a lot less tenuous than he said it was.
Surprisingly, the population is fairly dense, for several definitions of “dense.”
Seriously: how much does it matter if someone is wrong on the Internet?
Were I independently wealthy and generally unencumbered, I’d have no problem getting out of bed that late. Unfortunately, I am neither of those things.
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.