Friday, May 23, 2008
Link Addition
A new addition to the Daily list is Mr. Jason Gurley over at Deeply Shallow. Got to his site via a search for reviews of one of my top five all-time movie favorites, Robert Benton's adaptation of Richard Russo's Nobody's Fool. A perfect book joined with an almost perfect film adaptation. Mr. Gurley does a fine job of critiquing the movie. Only part he left out was that Nobody's Fool was probably Bruce Willis' finest hour. Being a Jersey kind of guy, I always had a soft spot for Mr. Willis, the thinking man's Sylvester Stallone.
And Mr. Gurley's Site? Something's always happenin', no matter the mundanity of it all.
And Mr. Gurley's Site? Something's always happenin', no matter the mundanity of it all.
Labels: Blogs
Monday, May 19, 2008
Shoe Tea
"Slovenes will make tea out of your shoes if you stand still long enough and then they’ll give it to you for the hangover you got from drinking their schnapps made from flowers."
What Rebecca West was to the pre-WWII Yugoslavia, Mr. Sgazzetti over @ Isoglossia is to the post-Yugoslavia split Slovenia. With quaint observational lines like the one above, how would you not be tempted to read on about the happenings in that beautiful country that is so often mixed up with Slovakia?
Hint! Slovenia has A seacoast (o.k. a very teeny slice of one).
Slovakia has NO seacost.
What Rebecca West was to the pre-WWII Yugoslavia, Mr. Sgazzetti over @ Isoglossia is to the post-Yugoslavia split Slovenia. With quaint observational lines like the one above, how would you not be tempted to read on about the happenings in that beautiful country that is so often mixed up with Slovakia?
Hint! Slovenia has A seacoast (o.k. a very teeny slice of one).
Slovakia has NO seacost.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
April's Rain Brings With It It's Pain
Well, it's almost the 15th of April, which means, despite the gorgeous weather, I'm belted to my seat and Turbo-Taxing away. Three fingers of this (having already gotten the heartbeat racing with espressos aplenty), throwing almost substantiateable figures around and I'll be ready to be writing a final accounting of things by tomorrow night. With a full day to spare! I'll save the 15th to make sure I work out the correct spelling of I R S as I send away the money they "loaned" me last year.A TOTH to Gwynne for pointing out this productivity test. Something to drop on the troops on Monday, oh, around two-ish, when what was lunch has settled in and kicked in the drowsies.
Frankly, I'm stunned at her score. It's mid-April, she's barely a buzz, and she calls herself a CPA!??!? She should be off the scale...unless...unless..oh, yeah the big cruise is coming.
The Very Big Cruise. You're stylin, Gwynne, just plain stylin'
Labels: Blogs
Friday, February 01, 2008
Crack Open Your Ears..
..and give this a listen. Mr. Whisky Prajer has gone podcast. He reads Footnote To a Bread Recipe from his self-published collection of short stories, Youthful Desires.
The story is a bit over 14 minutes. Grab yourself a hot cup of coffee, crank up the computer speakers, and settle back to a gorgeous rendition of one of the wonderful stories contained in Youthful Desires (highly recommended for purchase and perusal!).
He starts with Every day at 4:15 she rescued me from the grain elevator like some kind of gasoline angel, barreling down the dust road in my '67 pick-up to claim the soul of this work-worn soul. Having grown up in a family where the spoken and the written word carry equal weight, it is no surprise that the published words of his story come off strong and uncluttered when read aloud. It is not easy trick to write intricately with a tuned ear for the mot juste, and have the story present itself well both in the reading and in the speaking.
Congratulations to Mr. WP for pulling it off.
In other more pedestrian news, yours truly has recently purchased a replacement box for the twin domestic PC's that gave up the ghost. No, it's not a Mac (pause to dab the tears); it's a Dell. Adequacy in the face of additional buckos. This weekend, I'll be setting it up and hopefully renewing the blogging spirit. For those kind folks that still came to visit here in hopes of some scribbling, I thank you and I will be back, very shortly.
February will be a big month for dj-ing at 91.3. In addition to my semi-regular show, The Morning After, which I'll be hosting on Sunday, February 3rd, I'll be sitting in on a friend's jazz show, Avenue C, while he is on hiatus. The latter is on each Friday night from 10:00 to 12:00 midnight. I'll be dj-ing all of February's Fridays. So, listen in, if you've got somewhere to be within earshot of some happening tunes.
Labels: Blogs, Reviews, WVUD 91.3
Friday, January 11, 2008
Coming in (Randomly Generated) at #12
Tried this.
(From Mr. WP, who got it from Jim)
Got this.
Band Name : Baruva
Album Title: Wife Asks for Nothing
Album Cover:
(From Mr. WP, who got it from Jim)
Got this.
Band Name : Baruva
Album Title: Wife Asks for Nothing
Album Cover:
Labels: Blogs
Monday, January 07, 2008
Apologies to the Faithful Visitors
Folks,
Please accept my profound apologies. No fecundity here in a while. I've been buried (willingly and happily) in family-centered holiday events and trying to get through the trio of this book, this one, and also this one. Each is a treat; each is a juggle of a read.
I will be back. Shortly, or as soon as my home computer (the previously named Piece of Crap) is resuscitated. Unfortunately, no Apples falling from trees for this non-Newtonian dreamer.
Keeping me company in silence are these involving bits of music.
Please accept my profound apologies. No fecundity here in a while. I've been buried (willingly and happily) in family-centered holiday events and trying to get through the trio of this book, this one, and also this one. Each is a treat; each is a juggle of a read.
I will be back. Shortly, or as soon as my home computer (the previously named Piece of Crap) is resuscitated. Unfortunately, no Apples falling from trees for this non-Newtonian dreamer.
Keeping me company in silence are these involving bits of music.
Labels: Blogs, Domestic Burdens
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Playing with One's Internet Self
From Whisky Prajer, comes this self-assessment guide for bloggers. I'm not sure what's a Good score. I mean, if your blog (or you can put in someone else's blog as well) scores in the Junior High or High School range, is that good or bad?
It's good in that you'd hopefully invite a wider and larger audience for your Grand Poobah postings.
It's bad in that the high level of expostulation that you thought you'd been at is just another bad case of self-delusion. Don;t hurt yourself falling from your illusory heights.
Just running through the numbers.
2 Blowhards - High School Level
Bullseye Rooster - Elementary School Level
Outer Life - High School Level
Stephenesque (American Fez) - High School Level
About Last Night - College Level (Undergrad)
The Online Photographer - Elementary School Level (Methinks there's something quite wrong about this score)
I'm not too sure as to how the scores reflect the blogs. About Last Night seems right. All of the other sites seem way too low.
Highest score of blogs I go to regularly?
Middle Stage
Genius Level
Yipes!
followed by:
Texas Trifles
Yeee Haw !
and
Theory of Ice.
Writing about hockey (mainly) in an intense, passionate, and yet intuitive way.
Post-Graduate level.
Wow!
Yours truly? That would be me at the High School level, throwing erasers at the intense students up front.
It's good in that you'd hopefully invite a wider and larger audience for your Grand Poobah postings.
It's bad in that the high level of expostulation that you thought you'd been at is just another bad case of self-delusion. Don;t hurt yourself falling from your illusory heights.
Just running through the numbers.
2 Blowhards - High School Level
Bullseye Rooster - Elementary School Level
Outer Life - High School Level
Stephenesque (American Fez) - High School Level
About Last Night - College Level (Undergrad)
The Online Photographer - Elementary School Level (Methinks there's something quite wrong about this score)
I'm not too sure as to how the scores reflect the blogs. About Last Night seems right. All of the other sites seem way too low.
Highest score of blogs I go to regularly?
Middle Stage
Genius Level
Yipes!
followed by:
Texas Trifles
Yeee Haw !
and
Theory of Ice.
Writing about hockey (mainly) in an intense, passionate, and yet intuitive way.
Post-Graduate level.
Wow!
Yours truly? That would be me at the High School level, throwing erasers at the intense students up front.
Labels: Blogs, NaBloPoMo, Recipes
Friday, November 16, 2007
Identity Crisis, of the Self-Invented Sort
Not so much in search of topics as in Search of Self, I've decided to channel the inner Croatian and see how he communicates in his alleged mother tongue. If my relatives are any judge of my communicating methodology, laughs are sure to be provided by the possessors of basic Croatian when they try to read my entries.
My purpose, aside from providing unintended giggles to the Hrvati? Practice makes perfect, or in my case, ameliorates an embarrassing situation. So, this blog, My Hrvatski Really Stinks, is now open on the major Croatian blog site, the teeny tiny country's version of Blogger. We shall see how this goes. If nothing else, I'm sure my posting there, if they do attract flies to my 3 day fish entries, will produce fine examples of the Croatian Art of Cursing.
The blog site will be improved/changed as time goes on. I've blown the dust off of my Croatian-English/English-Croatian dictionaries, so the words used there will be accurate. However, for those hoping to learn anything from that site, I say, 'Speak not as I write". My grammar is, well, primitive. There are more than enough conjugations in the language to have 2 or 3 languages, so my "take" on them is haphazard, at best.
My purpose, aside from providing unintended giggles to the Hrvati? Practice makes perfect, or in my case, ameliorates an embarrassing situation. So, this blog, My Hrvatski Really Stinks, is now open on the major Croatian blog site, the teeny tiny country's version of Blogger. We shall see how this goes. If nothing else, I'm sure my posting there, if they do attract flies to my 3 day fish entries, will produce fine examples of the Croatian Art of Cursing.
The blog site will be improved/changed as time goes on. I've blown the dust off of my Croatian-English/English-Croatian dictionaries, so the words used there will be accurate. However, for those hoping to learn anything from that site, I say, 'Speak not as I write". My grammar is, well, primitive. There are more than enough conjugations in the language to have 2 or 3 languages, so my "take" on them is haphazard, at best.
Labels: Blogs, NaBloPoMo, Personalities
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Look....and....Look Again
Just pointing out two things. No, this isn't one of the daily postings I'm requiring myself to do in November. That would be lame and it's way too early in November to be reosrting to lameness.
Pointing out #1:
You've all heard/read/dreaded the anme Scott Boras. The New Yorker piece, NYT, blah, blah. Well, here quite succintly, Tim Souers at Cubby Blue, has illustrated for us a simple way of remembering Mr. Boras.
Pointing out #2: A YouTubization of the way past clever Jessica Hagy at Indexed.
Pointing out #1:
You've all heard/read/dreaded the anme Scott Boras. The New Yorker piece, NYT, blah, blah. Well, here quite succintly, Tim Souers at Cubby Blue, has illustrated for us a simple way of remembering Mr. Boras.
Pointing out #2: A YouTubization of the way past clever Jessica Hagy at Indexed.
Labels: Blogs
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
NaBloPoMo'ing
Not sure if Mr. Sgazzetti has signed up. His joining in on the November 2006 version of NaBloPoMo prompted me to sign up before I realized the level of commitment required. I made it through last November with at least one post a day. Unlike Ms. Jag over at Hillbilly, Please, who posts on almost a regular daily basis, moss tends to grow over my entries such that 2 posts a week is doing well for me. I need this commitment to get the posting numbers up. It's not a competitive thing although prizes are available. The tax consequences resulting from such gains is not worth the hassle; all I need is the IRS after my blogging personality to make this year truly special. So, if I win anything (hardly likely), I will not accept as I'd prefer not to have a taxing authority in my blogging domain.
So, my usual suspected readers. Any of you willing to make a month's commitment to the Daily Word?
So, my usual suspected readers. Any of you willing to make a month's commitment to the Daily Word?
Labels: Blogs, Life Decisions
Friday, October 12, 2007
Hockey is Not War....
..and that's where the problem lies.
"Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else.
Let’s pretend its 3:17 AM on a Tuesday, and we’re sitting in a bar. Not a club or anything fancy, just a very ordinary neighborhood tavern type thing (if your neighborhood bar isn’t open at 3:17 AM on Tuesdays, you live in the wrong neighborhood). Let’s pretend we’ve been drinking quite a bit for quite a while and chatting drunken-style about all sorts of things. Maybe I serenaded you with my very moving version of Rex’s Blues, and you were (being drunk) appropriately appreciative. Now it’s very late and things are getting pretty quiet and we’re not in Montreal because I’m smoking and staring at the smoke in that vaguely perplexed way that drunk people tend to stare at cigarette smoke. And after a longish silence, in which you were beginning to think about heading home, I say the following:
Sometimes…
[Pause. Deep breath.]
Sometimes I think that watching hockey makes me a bad person."
So, Ms. E over at A Theory of Ice begins her entry, On Watching. I've effused about her site quite a few times. This last entry seems to be something she's been working her way through for a while. Over 5,500 words, just short of 11 single-spaced pages. It's about hockey like Catch-22 is about planes. Print it out, mark it up, read it through multiple times.
Another bite:
"But all watching is a sort of vampirism. It’s all about appropriating the qualities of the game for ourselves. For some people it’s vicarious macho, for others it’s vicarious speed, vicarious anger, vicarious triumph, vicarious courage, vicarious endurance. In some sense being a hockey fan is similar to any other form of the symbolic consumption which is so characteristic of contemporary capitalist society- those qualities which we feel lacking in ourselves we seek in something external. Buying a sexy sportscar to feel young, or a hybrid to feel socially responsible. Getting a tattoo to feel cool. We are all very conscious of what our tastes and our choices say about us, we define other people often by what they like to watch, and define ourselves similarly."
and, finally:
"If hockey were war, it would in fact, be war, and if that’s what you really want, you know, we already have that and I’m very sure that a good many governments would be just thrilled if you wanted to go take a closer look. The whole reason that hockey is hockey is that it is not war, neither is it gladiatorial combat, or murder, or Fight Club. It’s not ultimate fighting, boxing, or (American) football. For that matter, it’s not basketball, baseball, figure skating, or dwarf bowling. It’s hockey, and it is different from all those things. So don’t tell me that hockey is violent because it’s battle. It’s not. Battle is battle and hockey is hockey, and metaphor is an art that points obliquely at truth but is not truth itself."
She makes me nervous and itchy with how well she writes about hockey. Seriously, has anyone out there come across someone else who comes even close? And it's not just this linked piece; it's all of her stuff. She is the Roger Angell of hockey.
"Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else.
Let’s pretend its 3:17 AM on a Tuesday, and we’re sitting in a bar. Not a club or anything fancy, just a very ordinary neighborhood tavern type thing (if your neighborhood bar isn’t open at 3:17 AM on Tuesdays, you live in the wrong neighborhood). Let’s pretend we’ve been drinking quite a bit for quite a while and chatting drunken-style about all sorts of things. Maybe I serenaded you with my very moving version of Rex’s Blues, and you were (being drunk) appropriately appreciative. Now it’s very late and things are getting pretty quiet and we’re not in Montreal because I’m smoking and staring at the smoke in that vaguely perplexed way that drunk people tend to stare at cigarette smoke. And after a longish silence, in which you were beginning to think about heading home, I say the following:
Sometimes…
[Pause. Deep breath.]
Sometimes I think that watching hockey makes me a bad person."
So, Ms. E over at A Theory of Ice begins her entry, On Watching. I've effused about her site quite a few times. This last entry seems to be something she's been working her way through for a while. Over 5,500 words, just short of 11 single-spaced pages. It's about hockey like Catch-22 is about planes. Print it out, mark it up, read it through multiple times.
Another bite:
"But all watching is a sort of vampirism. It’s all about appropriating the qualities of the game for ourselves. For some people it’s vicarious macho, for others it’s vicarious speed, vicarious anger, vicarious triumph, vicarious courage, vicarious endurance. In some sense being a hockey fan is similar to any other form of the symbolic consumption which is so characteristic of contemporary capitalist society- those qualities which we feel lacking in ourselves we seek in something external. Buying a sexy sportscar to feel young, or a hybrid to feel socially responsible. Getting a tattoo to feel cool. We are all very conscious of what our tastes and our choices say about us, we define other people often by what they like to watch, and define ourselves similarly."
and, finally:
"If hockey were war, it would in fact, be war, and if that’s what you really want, you know, we already have that and I’m very sure that a good many governments would be just thrilled if you wanted to go take a closer look. The whole reason that hockey is hockey is that it is not war, neither is it gladiatorial combat, or murder, or Fight Club. It’s not ultimate fighting, boxing, or (American) football. For that matter, it’s not basketball, baseball, figure skating, or dwarf bowling. It’s hockey, and it is different from all those things. So don’t tell me that hockey is violent because it’s battle. It’s not. Battle is battle and hockey is hockey, and metaphor is an art that points obliquely at truth but is not truth itself."
She makes me nervous and itchy with how well she writes about hockey. Seriously, has anyone out there come across someone else who comes even close? And it's not just this linked piece; it's all of her stuff. She is the Roger Angell of hockey.
Labels: Blogs, Hockey, Links to Posts, Reviews, The Sporting Thing
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
What's with "Verging on Pertinence"?
I am not too clever by half, quarter, eighth, nor even thirty-second. I am more the Wal-Mart/K-Mart shopper who has sneaked into (when it used to be) Lord & Taylor when the guards were distracted by the blinding reflections from some other shopper's jewels. I'm brown-bagging at Le Bec Fin until the Maître de spies me and gives me Le Heave-Ho. I'm a borrower and a borrower who almost always gives credit to the borrowee. Lately, pangs of guilt have kept me awake at night, twitching in bed like shrimp on a hot plate. I've been doing this blog of self-delusion for over 3 years now and have never written anything about this blog's title.
Well, it's basically a cannibalization of this book's title. Nothing to read into the short story, "Verging on the Pertinent", contained within the book. Simply a strong draw on my part to the book's (and story's) title. Nothing more.
I came upon Verging on the Pertinent by Carol Emshwiller back in the very early '90's. I'd never heard of Ms. Emshwiller before; the title of her book at a bookstore simply caught my eye. An odd combination of words and a suggestion of a sly joke, it seemed to me. The selection of short stories in this book number only 17. The book has just a little over 135 pages. 135 dense pages. In a few of the stories, I felt as if I dropped in on a party that's been in swing for a few hours. From the first sentence, I was trying to catch up to something all of the characters in the story already seemed to know about and weren;t willing to let me in on. I wanted to psssst! and ask one of them some questions, before the story got way past my ability to comprehend it. So, I'd simply turn back pages to the beginning and start again. Ms. Emshwiller considers herself a science-fiction writer and her other books certainly demonstrate that genre nicely. This book, however,reminds me of the short stories of Katinka Loeser, Peter DeVries' spouse (whom he met when she was "when she was bouncing quatrains off the moon, too". The stories begin within the confines of a humdrum reality and then take off to visions that test the reader's patience at times while inducing one to re-read the stories almost immediately. Her stories don't stick with me in their entirety, but certain portions of her stories are permanently embedded. Like Loeser's writings, Emshwiller's are quite frustrating. In a good way. Both are quite accomplished word-smiths; it's just that their products, for me at least, lack a smoothness that promotes a continuous read. Perhaps that is their intention. Read one story. Mull it over. Put the book down. Come back a week later and commence with the next story. I would not recommend any of Loeser's or Emshwiller's books because you'd most likely be cursing me midway through any of their stories, although you'd probably trudge on and finish them anyway. Let me just label both of these writers as frustratingly enjoyable and leave it at that.
Well, it's basically a cannibalization of this book's title. Nothing to read into the short story, "Verging on the Pertinent", contained within the book. Simply a strong draw on my part to the book's (and story's) title. Nothing more.
I came upon Verging on the Pertinent by Carol Emshwiller back in the very early '90's. I'd never heard of Ms. Emshwiller before; the title of her book at a bookstore simply caught my eye. An odd combination of words and a suggestion of a sly joke, it seemed to me. The selection of short stories in this book number only 17. The book has just a little over 135 pages. 135 dense pages. In a few of the stories, I felt as if I dropped in on a party that's been in swing for a few hours. From the first sentence, I was trying to catch up to something all of the characters in the story already seemed to know about and weren;t willing to let me in on. I wanted to psssst! and ask one of them some questions, before the story got way past my ability to comprehend it. So, I'd simply turn back pages to the beginning and start again. Ms. Emshwiller considers herself a science-fiction writer and her other books certainly demonstrate that genre nicely. This book, however,reminds me of the short stories of Katinka Loeser, Peter DeVries' spouse (whom he met when she was "when she was bouncing quatrains off the moon, too". The stories begin within the confines of a humdrum reality and then take off to visions that test the reader's patience at times while inducing one to re-read the stories almost immediately. Her stories don't stick with me in their entirety, but certain portions of her stories are permanently embedded. Like Loeser's writings, Emshwiller's are quite frustrating. In a good way. Both are quite accomplished word-smiths; it's just that their products, for me at least, lack a smoothness that promotes a continuous read. Perhaps that is their intention. Read one story. Mull it over. Put the book down. Come back a week later and commence with the next story. I would not recommend any of Loeser's or Emshwiller's books because you'd most likely be cursing me midway through any of their stories, although you'd probably trudge on and finish them anyway. Let me just label both of these writers as frustratingly enjoyable and leave it at that.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Crumbs from the Past
The different photo-sharing & viewing sites just keep getting better every day. It's hard to keep up with the ingenuity of some folks. Take, for instance, Mr. Bleak Mouse, who used to post on his blog on a regular weekly basis. Even though his entries were always funny, frequently beyond the horizon, and always expertly put together, the writing portion of his blog seems to have bored him. Sad for us, really. Immerse yourself into this piece or this one. Crumbs from the past. He's been beyond words for a while; it's images that now totally intrigue him. He's well beyond the cutting edge. While we're here waiting for the bus, he's long since boarded his intergalactic space pod. The blog-posting has stopped to be replaced by posting on his Flickr site.Links from there led me to this site, where this picture was posted. That picture, in turn, was jolted to come up with this picture. Simply gorgeous!
("Image from ImageShifter from the Flickr site, borrowed for linking purposes ONLY")
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The Elsewhere Blogs
By the signs of this photo, Dr. T. Burke of Easily Distracted has a career at Sign-Making he can lean on if the academic gig wears him out. Dr. Burke always has some interesting posts. I'm eagerly awaiting his thought-out view on the whole Antioch mess.
Searchie is Baaaacccccck! Her first posts since April are here and here. I'd given up any hope of her posting due to, what I'd presumed, a self-imposed sabbatical to concentrate on writing. Good to see her quips and snorts again.
Communicatrix is up to her usual self-improvement lists. Does she ever rest her brain? Hasn't she improved enough? Isn't there a wall one hits as far as species progression is concerned?
Darrell Reimer of Whisky Prajer has not let a summer flu of megalithic proportions slow down his reviews. In fact, he's been putting them out at a heated rate, the flu having seemingly turned up the temperature on his evaluative skills.
Searchie is Baaaacccccck! Her first posts since April are here and here. I'd given up any hope of her posting due to, what I'd presumed, a self-imposed sabbatical to concentrate on writing. Good to see her quips and snorts again.
Communicatrix is up to her usual self-improvement lists. Does she ever rest her brain? Hasn't she improved enough? Isn't there a wall one hits as far as species progression is concerned?
Darrell Reimer of Whisky Prajer has not let a summer flu of megalithic proportions slow down his reviews. In fact, he's been putting them out at a heated rate, the flu having seemingly turned up the temperature on his evaluative skills.
Labels: Blogs
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Uptake or Lack Thereof
I've been accused, justifiably, of being somewhat slow on the uptake at times. Luckily, my comprehensive skills never put someone else or myself in the physical danger zone. No, it was the more harmful social cues, well, missed social cues, where I've been caught doing 25 mph in a 55 mile zone.
Say, like the situation with Searchie. She last posted back in April, April 26th to be exact, ending her entry, titled Adieu, with "And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some living to do. It’s all about the journey, you see.....
Do widzenia
Ciao".
She'd been on the trips to Eastern Europe that she mentioned each year before and her last entry seemed, on first reading, simply a short descriptive of this year's itinerary. So, I missed the boat and was of the mind that she'd be posting of her travels shortly. So, some of us (well, maybe just me) are on the pier thinking her ship's coming in when she has clearly purchased a one-way ticket out of her blog.
I think.
Unless I'm missing those social cues once again.
Well, Searchie, if it is a longer trip away from the terra firma of your blog, may you have a journey filled with surprise and awe, fear followed immediately with comfort, and happiness through it all.
Adieu, indeed.
Say, like the situation with Searchie. She last posted back in April, April 26th to be exact, ending her entry, titled Adieu, with "And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some living to do. It’s all about the journey, you see.....
Do widzenia
Ciao".
She'd been on the trips to Eastern Europe that she mentioned each year before and her last entry seemed, on first reading, simply a short descriptive of this year's itinerary. So, I missed the boat and was of the mind that she'd be posting of her travels shortly. So, some of us (well, maybe just me) are on the pier thinking her ship's coming in when she has clearly purchased a one-way ticket out of her blog.
I think.
Unless I'm missing those social cues once again.
Well, Searchie, if it is a longer trip away from the terra firma of your blog, may you have a journey filled with surprise and awe, fear followed immediately with comfort, and happiness through it all.
Adieu, indeed.
Labels: Blogs
Economy of Verbosity
(i.e., Minimization of Verborhea)
Mr. Stephenesque, chief (and sole) writer, editor, reseracher, gumshoe, and self-observer of the American Fez, the online journal of the Stephenesque Organization, once again demonstrates the art of the bon mot. Well, actually, a collection of bon mots. Here, he recounts the tale of Prince Philip and his holiness. Mr. Stephenesque has some of the tightest, most gorgeous entries, almost always based on the "Less is Much Much More" principle.
Clincher (and closer) line?
"Personally I admire their theological clarity. Unlike other religions, at least they possess photographic proof that their deity is real."
Reading Mr. Stephenesque's entries, as I have over the past 3 1/2 years, always reminds me of an incident involving some acquaintances of ours quite a few years ago.
A long-married couple have had a long-standing competition with each other regarding who of the two of them had a better story to tell. If the story was actually based on facts, it was a bonus. If it was based on the truth, well not so much a bonus since Truth is such a wriggly greasy little beast, a difficult squirm of events to wrestle down.
One particular summer storm night, when electricity was in the air and sometimes also landing in trees as evidenced by split trunks the following morning, the couple was engaged in seperate activities in seperate rooms. The husband was watching a baseball game on tv, being broadcast from a city unencumbered with torrential rain and a Sturm und Drang lightening display. His spouse, ignoring sensibility during this electrical storm, was on the phone informing someone of her cleverly concocted opinions (BTW, I was going to use the old slang word, "heater", instead of phone. When I tried to link a site to the word "heater", it turns out that these days, the phone can be the heater....seriously. There are phones that can warm (or cool) the hands of the user, depending on how cold their hands are.).
Boom! Then, Boom! Again. Two seperaet bolts of lightening struck the house within seconds. What were the chances? Well, knowing the residents within that house, I'd say the chances were pretty damn good. The husband let out a whoop and a yelp and ran to the kitchen so as to detail the proof positive that this time he had a story to best his wife's. The tv had blown up, shards of glass in the wall, the rug, and even in him. The wooden cabinet was singed to a smoldering black, leaning to starboard, its innards slowly pouring out.
"Ah Ha! Beat this story! It blew up! Right in front of my face", he was screaming as he hobbled overto the kitchen. Turning the corner, his enthusiasm was hosed down at what he beheld. His wife, never one to be hesitant with a deluge of words, stood speechless, temporarily, by a kitchen wall. A black smudgy hole, still smoking, was all that was left of the telephone that had been mounted on the wall. Her face was a touch sooty giving her huge toothy smile an even brighter glow. Her right arm, elbow leaning on her waist, was holding a blackened piece of plastic.
"While you were sitting and viewing, I got a call from the Heavens!"
He slunk off and sat back in the frazzled favorite tv chair, muttering about Fate and stories.
Skunked, again.
So, Mr. Stephenesque, as I read that last posting, I thought about aerial electricity and your perpetually struck telephone. Where can I buy one of those?
Mr. Stephenesque, chief (and sole) writer, editor, reseracher, gumshoe, and self-observer of the American Fez, the online journal of the Stephenesque Organization, once again demonstrates the art of the bon mot. Well, actually, a collection of bon mots. Here, he recounts the tale of Prince Philip and his holiness. Mr. Stephenesque has some of the tightest, most gorgeous entries, almost always based on the "Less is Much Much More" principle.
Clincher (and closer) line?
"Personally I admire their theological clarity. Unlike other religions, at least they possess photographic proof that their deity is real."
Reading Mr. Stephenesque's entries, as I have over the past 3 1/2 years, always reminds me of an incident involving some acquaintances of ours quite a few years ago.
A long-married couple have had a long-standing competition with each other regarding who of the two of them had a better story to tell. If the story was actually based on facts, it was a bonus. If it was based on the truth, well not so much a bonus since Truth is such a wriggly greasy little beast, a difficult squirm of events to wrestle down.
One particular summer storm night, when electricity was in the air and sometimes also landing in trees as evidenced by split trunks the following morning, the couple was engaged in seperate activities in seperate rooms. The husband was watching a baseball game on tv, being broadcast from a city unencumbered with torrential rain and a Sturm und Drang lightening display. His spouse, ignoring sensibility during this electrical storm, was on the phone informing someone of her cleverly concocted opinions (BTW, I was going to use the old slang word, "heater", instead of phone. When I tried to link a site to the word "heater", it turns out that these days, the phone can be the heater....seriously. There are phones that can warm (or cool) the hands of the user, depending on how cold their hands are.).
Boom! Then, Boom! Again. Two seperaet bolts of lightening struck the house within seconds. What were the chances? Well, knowing the residents within that house, I'd say the chances were pretty damn good. The husband let out a whoop and a yelp and ran to the kitchen so as to detail the proof positive that this time he had a story to best his wife's. The tv had blown up, shards of glass in the wall, the rug, and even in him. The wooden cabinet was singed to a smoldering black, leaning to starboard, its innards slowly pouring out.
"Ah Ha! Beat this story! It blew up! Right in front of my face", he was screaming as he hobbled overto the kitchen. Turning the corner, his enthusiasm was hosed down at what he beheld. His wife, never one to be hesitant with a deluge of words, stood speechless, temporarily, by a kitchen wall. A black smudgy hole, still smoking, was all that was left of the telephone that had been mounted on the wall. Her face was a touch sooty giving her huge toothy smile an even brighter glow. Her right arm, elbow leaning on her waist, was holding a blackened piece of plastic.
"While you were sitting and viewing, I got a call from the Heavens!"
He slunk off and sat back in the frazzled favorite tv chair, muttering about Fate and stories.
Skunked, again.
So, Mr. Stephenesque, as I read that last posting, I thought about aerial electricity and your perpetually struck telephone. Where can I buy one of those?
Labels: Blogs
Monday, June 04, 2007
Letting Frank Rich Speak For Me
In a friendly badinage concerning our differing opinions of the last two-termers this country has had guiding our ship of state from the troubled waters of moral turpitude through the straits of incompetence to the vast oceans of secrecy, privlege, and continual 9/11 justified lying, Gwynne at The Shallow End and I have spoken our piece and hopefully are still at peace, with each other. I'm hoping political opinion will not muddy the Adriatic clear waters of our friendship. Let's face it; each of us has minimal, make that infinitesimally miniscule, effect on how our country is run. The 2000 election is exhibit #1.
My displeasure for the current administration unfortunately doesn't make me instantly erudite about expressing the multitude of reasons I am cooking in my own qualunquismo stew. So, without further ado, let me simply extract an excerpt or two from Frank Rich's most recent Sunday NYT Op-Ed piece titled "Failed Presidents Ain't What They They Used To Be".
In attending a recent performance of "Frost/Nixon", Mr. Rich was bowled over by the performance of Tony Award nominated Frank Langella. He writes:
"...but Mr. Langella unearths humanity and pathos in the old scoundrel eking out his exile in San Clemente. For anyone who ever hated Nixon, this achievement is so shocking that it's hard to resist a thought experiment the moment you left the theater: will it someday be possible to feel a pang of sympathy for George W. Bush?
Perhaps not. It's hard to pity someone who, to me anyway, is too slight to hate. Unlike Nixon, President Bush is less an overreaching Machiavelli than an epic blunderer surrounded by Machiavellis. He lacks the crucial element of self-awareness that gave Nixon his tragic depth. Nixon came form nothing, loathed himself and was all too keenly aware when he was up to dirty tricks. Mr. Bush has a charmed biography, is full of himself, and is far too blinded by self-righteousness to even fleetingly recognize the havoc he's inflicted at home and abroad. Though historians may judge him a worse president than Nixon-some already have-at the personal level his is not a grand Shakespearean failure. It would be a waste of Frank Langella's talent to play George W. Bush (though not, necessarily, of Matthew McConaughey's (OUCH, that was not necessary)).
This is in part why persistent cries for impeachment have gone nowhere in the Democratic Party hierarchy. Arguably the most accurate gut check on what the country feels about Mr. Bush was a January Newsweek poll finding that a sizable American majority just wished that his "presidency was over" This flatlining administration inspires contempt and dismay more than the deep-seated long-term revulsion whipped up by Nixon; voters just can't wait for Mr. Bush to leave Washington so that someone, anyone, can turn the page and start rectifying the damage. Yet if he lacks Nixon's larger-than-life villany, he will nonetheless leave Americans feeling much the same way they did after Nixon fled: in a state of anger about the state of the nation."
Addendum June 5th. Seems a few pundits are going to see "Frost/Nixon" and mull over the current President Bush's future consideration of importance vis-a-vis, say Preseident Nixon. Here's George Packer's take from the most recent New Yorker. Do these folks gather in the lobby and share their soon-to-be-published thoughts or is there just a similar mindset inspired by the play?
My displeasure for the current administration unfortunately doesn't make me instantly erudite about expressing the multitude of reasons I am cooking in my own qualunquismo stew. So, without further ado, let me simply extract an excerpt or two from Frank Rich's most recent Sunday NYT Op-Ed piece titled "Failed Presidents Ain't What They They Used To Be".
In attending a recent performance of "Frost/Nixon", Mr. Rich was bowled over by the performance of Tony Award nominated Frank Langella. He writes:
"...but Mr. Langella unearths humanity and pathos in the old scoundrel eking out his exile in San Clemente. For anyone who ever hated Nixon, this achievement is so shocking that it's hard to resist a thought experiment the moment you left the theater: will it someday be possible to feel a pang of sympathy for George W. Bush?
Perhaps not. It's hard to pity someone who, to me anyway, is too slight to hate. Unlike Nixon, President Bush is less an overreaching Machiavelli than an epic blunderer surrounded by Machiavellis. He lacks the crucial element of self-awareness that gave Nixon his tragic depth. Nixon came form nothing, loathed himself and was all too keenly aware when he was up to dirty tricks. Mr. Bush has a charmed biography, is full of himself, and is far too blinded by self-righteousness to even fleetingly recognize the havoc he's inflicted at home and abroad. Though historians may judge him a worse president than Nixon-some already have-at the personal level his is not a grand Shakespearean failure. It would be a waste of Frank Langella's talent to play George W. Bush (though not, necessarily, of Matthew McConaughey's (OUCH, that was not necessary)).
This is in part why persistent cries for impeachment have gone nowhere in the Democratic Party hierarchy. Arguably the most accurate gut check on what the country feels about Mr. Bush was a January Newsweek poll finding that a sizable American majority just wished that his "presidency was over" This flatlining administration inspires contempt and dismay more than the deep-seated long-term revulsion whipped up by Nixon; voters just can't wait for Mr. Bush to leave Washington so that someone, anyone, can turn the page and start rectifying the damage. Yet if he lacks Nixon's larger-than-life villany, he will nonetheless leave Americans feeling much the same way they did after Nixon fled: in a state of anger about the state of the nation."
Addendum June 5th. Seems a few pundits are going to see "Frost/Nixon" and mull over the current President Bush's future consideration of importance vis-a-vis, say Preseident Nixon. Here's George Packer's take from the most recent New Yorker. Do these folks gather in the lobby and share their soon-to-be-published thoughts or is there just a similar mindset inspired by the play?
Karl Marx, Film Material
As pointed out by Mr. Kolkava over at Deleted by Tomorrow, here's a link to Crooked Timber where a seemingly simple topic, a film covering the 1830-1848 years of Karl Marx's life, spawns a hilarious chain of commentary by the Crooked Timber readers. Check it out. Who would have thought there was so much material on the non-Material Guy?
My nomination for the role of Karl Marx is Robbie Coltrane of Blackadder Christmas and Harry Potter fame.
Labels: Blogs
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
A Whirl & a Rant
Well, the famous Fistful of Euros Annual Best Blog in Europe Contest, Version #3 of the Satin Pajamas Awards, is officially over.
Due, I believe, to the temporary insanity of quite a few of his readers, the karmic mental telepathy powers of his two sons, and the unquestionable devotion of his lovely bride and her allies, as he puts it, the unstoppable force called the Polish maternal instinct, Mr. Sgazzetti over @ Isoglossia is this year's winner in the Best Expatriate Weblog category. Early in the competition, Mr. S. was sucking fumes at 1% of the total vote. He ended up with 41%, beating out Le Meg over at Le Blagueur à Paris, who finished at 30%. Le Meg was quite the worthy opponent and a winner in the Best Writing category, where she trounced the Gigantor of European blogs, My Boyfriend is a Twat. My personal take on this is that Le Meg, nominated in 4 categories, had spread herself out too thin, allowing Isoglossia to concentrate his efforts and his acolytes to vote for one category. Congratulations to both winners; we await the obligatory Satin PJ pictures. Le Meg, ever the sly one, opted for a body-double on her pose. Mr. Sgazzetti, I'm sure, will grace us with his presence; I'm envisioning something along these lines.
Thank you to all of the folks who stopped by in the last week and cast your vote for the eventual winner of Best Expatriate Blog. Another year, another winner from Slovenia!
Now, a short rant on the human condition.
This past weekend, a gorgeous Saturday specifically, the fam went up to Philly to purchase another futon and frame from the usual suspect. In lieu of a relation visiting form the Land of the Croats, new sleeping possibilities were in order. Having purchased the futon and accessories, we walked out of the store with the only thing we could easily carry at the time, the futon cover. Let me correct that last sentence; it was I who walked out holding the bag. A quite nice lunch at DiBruno Brothers on Rittenhouse Square followed our furniture acquisition. I, being what I thought of sound mind and body, placed the bag next to my chair, leaning against a wall. Seemingly overpowered by the tastiness of the lunch, we departed after an hour or so. I, sans bag. Driving home, I realized something was amiss. I squealled over to the side of the highway and searched frantically for the futon cover. Bumpkus! My ever-loving wife, possessing the vocal pipes of the Sirens, called up DiBruno's. Using her hypnotically persuasive tone and words, she easily persuaded the woman at the other end of the line to search the store and restaurant thoroughly. Bumpkus!
O.K., we decided to drive back the 8 miles we'd already distanced ourselves from the scene of my Personal Possession Management issue to aid in the search. Again, no luck.
So, here's my quandry. Having eaten in an upscale breakfast/lunch restaurant, one would think there's a different attitude or set of manners to be exhibited. I could understand, but not excuse, if someone saw the bag and walked away with it if if had cd's, clothes, cosmetics, etc. But a futon cover? What kind of morning did someone out there have to be blessed with such kismet?
"Hey Honey! I've got that feeling again and we need a futon cover. Cheap. Let me go to DiBruno's this afternoon and pick one up. Green o.k. with you?"
As life is a circle, someone's kismet is another person's Black Swan.
Or, perhaps, the powers of Le Meg were seriously underestimated by yours truly. Le Meg, please, don't hold my futon cover hostage! I voted multiple times for you in the Best Writing category!
Due, I believe, to the temporary insanity of quite a few of his readers, the karmic mental telepathy powers of his two sons, and the unquestionable devotion of his lovely bride and her allies, as he puts it, the unstoppable force called the Polish maternal instinct, Mr. Sgazzetti over @ Isoglossia is this year's winner in the Best Expatriate Weblog category. Early in the competition, Mr. S. was sucking fumes at 1% of the total vote. He ended up with 41%, beating out Le Meg over at Le Blagueur à Paris, who finished at 30%. Le Meg was quite the worthy opponent and a winner in the Best Writing category, where she trounced the Gigantor of European blogs, My Boyfriend is a Twat. My personal take on this is that Le Meg, nominated in 4 categories, had spread herself out too thin, allowing Isoglossia to concentrate his efforts and his acolytes to vote for one category. Congratulations to both winners; we await the obligatory Satin PJ pictures. Le Meg, ever the sly one, opted for a body-double on her pose. Mr. Sgazzetti, I'm sure, will grace us with his presence; I'm envisioning something along these lines.
Thank you to all of the folks who stopped by in the last week and cast your vote for the eventual winner of Best Expatriate Blog. Another year, another winner from Slovenia!
Now, a short rant on the human condition.
This past weekend, a gorgeous Saturday specifically, the fam went up to Philly to purchase another futon and frame from the usual suspect. In lieu of a relation visiting form the Land of the Croats, new sleeping possibilities were in order. Having purchased the futon and accessories, we walked out of the store with the only thing we could easily carry at the time, the futon cover. Let me correct that last sentence; it was I who walked out holding the bag. A quite nice lunch at DiBruno Brothers on Rittenhouse Square followed our furniture acquisition. I, being what I thought of sound mind and body, placed the bag next to my chair, leaning against a wall. Seemingly overpowered by the tastiness of the lunch, we departed after an hour or so. I, sans bag. Driving home, I realized something was amiss. I squealled over to the side of the highway and searched frantically for the futon cover. Bumpkus! My ever-loving wife, possessing the vocal pipes of the Sirens, called up DiBruno's. Using her hypnotically persuasive tone and words, she easily persuaded the woman at the other end of the line to search the store and restaurant thoroughly. Bumpkus!
O.K., we decided to drive back the 8 miles we'd already distanced ourselves from the scene of my Personal Possession Management issue to aid in the search. Again, no luck.
So, here's my quandry. Having eaten in an upscale breakfast/lunch restaurant, one would think there's a different attitude or set of manners to be exhibited. I could understand, but not excuse, if someone saw the bag and walked away with it if if had cd's, clothes, cosmetics, etc. But a futon cover? What kind of morning did someone out there have to be blessed with such kismet?
"Hey Honey! I've got that feeling again and we need a futon cover. Cheap. Let me go to DiBruno's this afternoon and pick one up. Green o.k. with you?"
As life is a circle, someone's kismet is another person's Black Swan.
Or, perhaps, the powers of Le Meg were seriously underestimated by yours truly. Le Meg, please, don't hold my futon cover hostage! I voted multiple times for you in the Best Writing category!
Labels: Blogs
Friday, May 25, 2007
One Last Plea
Voting ends at the end of today for The Third Annual Satin Pajamas awards given out as a result of YOUR voting. Didn't have a chance to vote in the recent French elections? Then go here and vote for Isolglossia in the category of Best Expatriate Writing. He's only 2% points behind the tempting and Continental Le Blagueur à Paris.Your choices are Isolglossia, an American in Slovenia who's busy creating boys and DIY Mac Cases.
Or.
Le Meg over at Le Blagueur à Paris, who, while thoroughly entertaining, witty, and self-deprecating (Lots of bonus points for the latter) is, uhhmmmm...well she, ahhhh, she doesn't seem to enjoy drinking beer. Yeah, that's a good reason for voting for Isolglossia, a man thoroughly capable in the matters of Babies & Beer.
So, please. Two minutes of your time here and click on Isolglossia.
Often. Clicking often is a good thing.
UPDATE:
Le Meg over at Le Blagueur à Paris has made quite a tempting offer.
" le Meg said...
The Darko Lord of the Tween Devil Squad hath appeared!
And is he asking me to barter?
I would certainly cede the western territory of Expat if he were to allow me the small kingdom of Writing.
Call off your dogs Darko!
"
Aside from her "complementary" phrasing, I think her proposal is quite the Gordian Knot solution to this dilemna.
So, please vote for Le Blagueur à Paris in the category of Best Writing here. She does deserve to win at least one of the awards that she's been nominated for.
Labels: Blogs
