If you suspect that this has been done before, well, you shouldn’t be surprised to learn that it’s been done again.
Archive for Ventually
Revelations from a third of the way through an issue of InStyle, or how I will never, ever have any business being a fashion blogger.
How could this Presidential campaign possibly be any worse? Just try to imagine how dull it would be without Donald Trump.
Or at least you’re about to buy one, and you probably won’t like the financing options.
Nothing in life prepares you for finding a hefty chunk of tree just lying in the street on an otherwise-peaceful morning.
Well, nothing has prepared me for it, anyway.
Update: Morning wood gone by evening, so to speak.
To some extent, I sympathize with the Greeks during this, their Hour of Need; but it’s not going to go away without a whole lot of hardship. Believe me, I know.
Still, the important part of that statement was “died alone.” It’s a subject I obsess over, ever so slightly.
If the mere thought of going to the Department of Motor Vehicles fills you with existential dread, you could always move here, where you’ll only have to do that sort of thing once. Maybe.
At times, mine eyes, and maybe other organs as well, doth deceive me, and I have to assume it’s my own damn fault.
In which Mike Huckabee, perhaps despite himself, lines up behind me, a mere 19 years after the fact. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.
It’s not a dream, it’s not an angel, it’s not even a good statistics tracker anymore. So out it goes.
It’s the rainiest month ever over eighteen inches with nearly a full week to go and if I’m not actually drowning, I’m not taking it well either.
Well, I figured it up, and over a period of time
This four thousand-dollar car of mine
Cost fourteen thousand dollars and ninety-nine cents.
In which I bewail the state of the world while quoting both Karl Marx and Danny Glover. It’s a nasty job, but somebody has to do it.
Not that you were wondering, exactly, but since I seldom have passengers, this may be your one and only chance to find out what I’m thinking while I’m driving home.
Not that you were waiting for them, exactly, but here are some thoughts on the sacking of Oklahoma City Thunder coach Scott Brooks.
(Warning: Contains several gratuitous pop-culture references.)
If you were anywhere within four or five miles of downtown Oklahoma City on this date in 1995, it’s a pretty safe bet that you heard it. Felt it. First you wondered what; then you wondered why. We’ve pretty much settled the first question.
For those of you who might have thought that academia is overrun with sexual non-binary types and other individuals hard to characterize, well, that might be true in the Ivies, but it doesn’t work out here on the Plains.
Were you ever in a darkened room with a fan running? And if so, did you ever hear what seemed to be fragments of voices coming from its general direction?
I have always been a firm believer in What You See Is What You Get. Or, you know, not.
Time was, every young American was equipped with, as Hemingway is supposed to have said, “a built-in, shockproof crap detector.” And they would keep that invaluable device all their lives until they ran for political office.
I’m not saying I’m the expert on Too Much Information, but I’m the expert on Too Much Information. Maybe.
Dear teenage girl: No, you should not send nude photos of yourself to some boy you
barely hardly know. Strange things happen when your clothes are off.
Advertisers want your attention, and they’re going to get it any way they possibly can.
If ever I had a reason to reject that particular description and I’m pretty sure I did it’s stronger, not to mention louder, now.
I’ve never been this old before, and I definitely feel like it.
If your memory serves you well
We were going to meet again and wait
So I’m going to unpack all my things
And sit before it gets too late
Bob Dylan/Rick Danko, “This Wheel’s On Fire,” as recorded by Brian Auger and the Trinity with Julie Driscoll on vocals.
And they will tweet unto you God knows what. I, for one, shrug.
Depressed? “Buck up,” they say. “Smile a little.”
They are, of course, full of crap.