The Futontross
I put you on Freecycle, futon. And still, no-one wants you. What does that say about you, futon? That no-one wants you even when you are free. And I didn't even include the awful truth that you still smell vaguely of cat pee.
Your mattress weighs a metric ton, and your folding frame does not stay up--one of many ways that you are an invertebrate. Your mattress is too heavy and thick for your frame, I know. It was me that made the poor choice of giant mattress with inadequate frame. But that does not excuse you just lying there, taking up half the guest room, taunting me with your amorphousness--some vast and awful reminder of why some wonders of the Orient should have been left there, along with duck feet and/or beaks.
Your days are numbered, futon.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
SOUP DAY!
Just thought I'd break the months and months of silence here to let you know that is clearly and unambiguously Soup Day. I urge you in the strongest possible way to go and eat some soup right now. If you can't eat it, for some private reason that you'd rather keep to yourself, like maybe you were traumatized by soup as a youngster when you walked in on your parents having soup one day, the delicious broth running down their chins, then you could maybe at least think about soup for a while. It's the least you could do.
Me, I'm having corn chowder with something that might be called poblano--I don't know what it is. But it is so good. I'm turning to the wind, my eyes wide open*, naked and alive for the first time, thanks to this soup.
Soup. Freaking. Day.
*I don't recommend this. If you must turn to the wind, please wear eye protection.
Just thought I'd break the months and months of silence here to let you know that is clearly and unambiguously Soup Day. I urge you in the strongest possible way to go and eat some soup right now. If you can't eat it, for some private reason that you'd rather keep to yourself, like maybe you were traumatized by soup as a youngster when you walked in on your parents having soup one day, the delicious broth running down their chins, then you could maybe at least think about soup for a while. It's the least you could do.
Me, I'm having corn chowder with something that might be called poblano--I don't know what it is. But it is so good. I'm turning to the wind, my eyes wide open*, naked and alive for the first time, thanks to this soup.
Soup. Freaking. Day.
*I don't recommend this. If you must turn to the wind, please wear eye protection.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
A Possibly Astute Observation
There comes a moment when you're eating red licorice when you think to yourself "You know, I'm only one step away from eating plastic here."
In fact, I'd go as far as to say that red licorice is probably the closest you can get to a non-food item and still have it be food. Not sure who would win in a non-food-off between wax lips and red licorice, but it would be close.
There comes a moment when you're eating red licorice when you think to yourself "You know, I'm only one step away from eating plastic here."
In fact, I'd go as far as to say that red licorice is probably the closest you can get to a non-food item and still have it be food. Not sure who would win in a non-food-off between wax lips and red licorice, but it would be close.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Here's to You, Brad
I don't come around here much anymore, but there's no place that makes sense more than this to talk about my friend Brad Graham, a man I knew only online and never met.
A few years ago--I suppose it is more like 8 years ago now--I was working in a godawful job that I called "Purgatory Inc." when I wrote about it here on My Life as an American Gladiator. To keep from going crazy, I spent a lot of time at Metafilter, an collaborative blog where users would post links to "The Best of the Web" and comment on those links. As my job seemed more and more, well, kafkaesque, I spent more time there, goofing around and cracking wise, avoiding soul-crushing brochure writing duties. Eventually, I got to know a few of the other wiseacres and joined them at a new site they'd made where such chat was welcome.
I'd keep a window open to this new site all day at work, and as the minutes dragged by, I'd chat away with that bunch of reprobates, including one TheBrad.
He had a quick wit, and a love of language. He'd revel in a pun or a Tom Swifty, or a shaggy dog story, and was always quicker at them than me. Here's one Swifty I wrote that I know he liked:
"I won't be able to make up my mind whether to play golf or go see Hamlet" Tom foreordained.
He is in the OED as the coiner of the term "blogosphere"--a term he did in fact coin, and hated.
He was very openly gay--from him I learned that it's much funnier to call them "the gays" than "gays". He campaigned for gay rights and AIDS education. He told stories of his nights out at the bar scene in St. Louis, usually with some perfect witticism at the end.
I still visit that site and chat with the reprobates, though my job keeps me a lot busier now than then. A job I got because one of the folks on the site hooked me up with an interview 5 years ago this January.
And this weekend, my online friend Brad was found dead in his home. And I am not sure what to do about that. What do I do with this grief for him, someone I never met? I don't know.
I write this, I guess, and say I am proud to have known you, Brad, you reprobate.
I don't come around here much anymore, but there's no place that makes sense more than this to talk about my friend Brad Graham, a man I knew only online and never met.
A few years ago--I suppose it is more like 8 years ago now--I was working in a godawful job that I called "Purgatory Inc." when I wrote about it here on My Life as an American Gladiator. To keep from going crazy, I spent a lot of time at Metafilter, an collaborative blog where users would post links to "The Best of the Web" and comment on those links. As my job seemed more and more, well, kafkaesque, I spent more time there, goofing around and cracking wise, avoiding soul-crushing brochure writing duties. Eventually, I got to know a few of the other wiseacres and joined them at a new site they'd made where such chat was welcome.
I'd keep a window open to this new site all day at work, and as the minutes dragged by, I'd chat away with that bunch of reprobates, including one TheBrad.
He had a quick wit, and a love of language. He'd revel in a pun or a Tom Swifty, or a shaggy dog story, and was always quicker at them than me. Here's one Swifty I wrote that I know he liked:
"I won't be able to make up my mind whether to play golf or go see Hamlet" Tom foreordained.
He is in the OED as the coiner of the term "blogosphere"--a term he did in fact coin, and hated.
He was very openly gay--from him I learned that it's much funnier to call them "the gays" than "gays". He campaigned for gay rights and AIDS education. He told stories of his nights out at the bar scene in St. Louis, usually with some perfect witticism at the end.
I still visit that site and chat with the reprobates, though my job keeps me a lot busier now than then. A job I got because one of the folks on the site hooked me up with an interview 5 years ago this January.
And this weekend, my online friend Brad was found dead in his home. And I am not sure what to do about that. What do I do with this grief for him, someone I never met? I don't know.
I write this, I guess, and say I am proud to have known you, Brad, you reprobate.
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