Is anyone out there?
Archive for Ventually
I started going grey at the age of 23, and that particular number seems to have a lot to say for itself.
“Someone painted ‘April Fool’ in big black letters on a Dead End sign,” Kenny Rogers sang back in the day. Now if you’ve been paying attention, you already know that we have fools 365 days a year, more in Leap Year, and today merely gives them the recognition they crave.
So you think you’d like to blog. Go ahead. Be my guest. Just don’t kid yourself that you’re ever going to make a living at it.
She did nothing to deserve that status, of course, but there would always be someone to explain why it was her fault. No one, however, can explain why I would dream about it.
I have long suspected that everyone’s definition is just a little bit different — and I’m not entirely sure I have one at all. Perhaps it’s just as well.
Most of one’s long-ago classmates are by now a large, amorphous blob. Certainly most of mine are. But there are always those who aren’t.
Regrets? I’ve had a few, and one of them, weirdly, is having never been a teenage girl, or having never had the opportunity to grow into one.
“Only trouble is, gee whiz,” the Bryants (Boudleaux, anyway) wrote and the Everlys sang, “I’m dreaming my life away.” This is perhaps the downside of recovering from insomnia. I’d certainly prefer it to insomnia. But it has a catch or two.
It was Monday night, I’d just finished the last Tuesday post, and suddenly, panic ensued.
I have reason to believe that I’m better at that than I am at actually dating, though not everyone accepts my interpretations and conclusions.
Remember when you filled out one side of a card, slapped a stamp on the other, and the mThe trouble with trying to do what the cool kids do rather rudely presents itself when you’re neither cool nor a kid. Believe me, I know.
The worst automotive idea I can recall was the skirted front fenders of the bathtub Nash, both standard- and Rambler-sized, which made for a turning circle unworthy of a school bus.
But geez, there’s an awful lot of competition for second place.
It might even be better. I have little faith in my ability to prognosticate. Actually, I have little faith in anyone’s ability to prognosticate, but I can take responsibility only for my own misestimates.
In which we learn that everyday smartness is definitely no match for quotidian stupidity.
To misappropriate a line from J. B. S. Haldane, it’s not only more expensive than we imagine, it’s more expensive than we can imagine.
I have twenty-one years’ worth of email in the archives here. And you would not believe what I had to go through to keep access to it.
That title probably suggests something very obvious to you.
And you would be correct.
Frank Sinatra did it his way; I figure, I might as well do it mine.
It is seemingly de rigueur these days to disparage the economics we learned from Adam Smith, but if you ask me, they’re just jerking us around.
All Facebook is divided into three parts: family matters, social interaction, and conspiracy theories. Today I got one of each.
Two things arrive here in mid-autumn: the bill for the renewal of my current homeowner’s insurance, and suspicious-looking counteroffers from that company’s competitors. It was, of course, always thus, and by “always” I mean “for the 15 years I’ve lived in this one spot.” Once in a while, though, I want to see what the competition is up to.
As seen, or as imagined, from not quite twenty thousand days ago.
Nine questions went through the mill; five of them will appear on the General Election ballot next month.
You ever have one of those days? Today has equaled about three of them.
“Well, it sounds like you’ve been unhappy for a long time.”
“Honey, you have no idea.”
That’s the long-time motto of the Pink Pistols, perhaps the best-known of the gay gun-rights groups.
With the Pistols being merged with Operation Blazing Sword, I thought you might want to hear from the woman now running the show.
A brave man once requested me
To answer questions that are key
Is it to be or not to be
And I replied, “Oh why ask me?”
“Tell me where it hurts,” says the doctor.