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.
Archive for Ventually
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.
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.