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.
Archive for Ventually
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.
Can I pass myself off as 51 instead of 61? I wouldn’t have thought so, but what the hell do I know?
She loves me; she loves me not. It’s a lot easier for me to believe the latter.
I’ve mentioned before that occasionally I page through the archives, and sometimes, I have to admit, I like what I see.
And then there are the times when I don’t.
The 24-hour bug persisted for a lot longer than 24 hours, and all of a sudden things look a great deal bleaker than they did a couple of days ago.
Once I’ve posted something, I never, ever want to see it again unless I do.
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.
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?