Bringing to mind both Dumbo and The Flying Nun, is Mr. Jeffries, a basset hound and grandpup of Mr. Biggles of Hush Puppies fame. This fine specimen of dog-eared-ness has 11- or 12-inch ears (depending on your news source) insured for 30,000 pounds.
I hope that you’re all writing about the troubling events in your life somewhere. In a small study, reported by the BBC, even a physical wound heals faster when the wounded write about troubling emotional experiences as compared to those who did not write. Those who did not write also had higher levels of stress.
At various times in the past, I’ve tried to journal (v.i.) or keep a diary, but this has always ended within just a few days—at the most. I’ve even started a journal-y blog elsewhere… but that has sat dormant for the last four or five weeks of its six or so weeks of existence. I’m not sure if I’ll ever use it as much of a therapeutic practice (at some point in such an exercise, I usually decide that I either need to do something fun or pass the mic for a while).
There’s a lot of concern these days about so-called "white collar" jobs going overseas. It’s great to see a work force elevate itself by making a quality contribution at a great price… as long as it’s not your job that’s getting replaced.
We can point to countries that have been doing well for some time with getting overseas contracts, and we can perhaps see which countries might be on the rise. However, we need to let our thinking move beyond geo-political boundaries and see opportunities for other species to move into new roles. For example, primates are starting to do great work in software, according to Primate Programming, Inc., and their prices can’t be beat! (Of course, as a former editor, I recognize the ridiculousness of the claim that their employees have great English skills—programmers typically use terrible English.)
Some people might feel threatened by apes taking computer jobs, but I say, let them. It’s my turn to finger paint.
I often think of silly or absurd phrases that I’d like to use for titles, but rarely the text that might follow. Like this one, which came to mind again due to the recent probable death of Uday & Qusai Hussein. Perhaps, though, I’ll start posting these little bits, since I seem to rarely get around to doing anything longer.
After a community viewing of Jay’s losing—but smart and refined—competition on Jeopardy, I drove home and stopped by the ProClub for some cycling that I really should have done outside (I even had my road bike on the back of my car).
Later, driving down Broadway, just after passing the south end of Broadway Market and before the Vivace outpost, across from Bill & Ted’s Excellent Cafe Adventure, or whatever that Baskin-Robbins became, I heard a loud, sharp noise on my right. Had someone thrown something at my car? It was so loud, I wondered how it could have been a human-powered shot. Was it my shiny car with the gold “L” logo that had elicited the attack?
I turned the corner and pulled into the parking lot at WaMu to inspect the car, wondering how, if I found damage, I could do anything useful about catching the culprit. I scanned the right side of the car… no visible holes in the body… one dimple I already know about… tires are fine… no cracked glass. Huh. I got back in the car, and then I saw my attacker. The parking garage at the health club was quite warm, and an hour of sitting there had caused quite a bit of pressure to build up in the re-corked bottle of Duvel lying on the passenger seat. The cork was no longer in the bottle.
I held up the bottle while I wiped up the ale with my canvas bag from Trader Joe’s, and then realized how that might be perceived around here (the open container of alcohol in the hand of the driver). Canvas isn’t too absorbent, so I’ll be referring now to the car’s “ale skin” interior.
After years of orbiting Capitol Hill, I finally drew close enough to it to say with some plausibility that I live on it. All the good reasons to be here are still here, but it no longer seems charming to me. If I could somehow turn my apartment into a house with a yard and lower rent…
Rent. Rent must be the lowest adventure-per-dollar deal one can make. Even though I can now afford rent that would have made me squeamish a few years ago, I find now that it is quite frustrating when I’m accustomed to more disposable income (and room for my feeling-based accounting methods).
I think I’m ready to share a house again. (Heh, but I have also sworn of roommates in the past.) Maybe it’s time to live in the Artist’s Republic. And one day, I’ll say casually that I’ve lived in a brownstone, I’ve lived in the ghetto, I’ve lived all over this town.
Despite the fact that my mail boxes are overfull and under-read, despite the fact that fifteen days after my birthday party I still have dishes—and parts of the floor—to wash, despite the fact that my two-plus-year project at work is in its final days, I felt drawn to finally try cultivating a weblog.
This last week I read Sugar Blues. This is a captivating book about the history of sugar. Sugar induced and perpetuated a good deal of slavery, and I’m not talking about the addicts. Much less than harmless "empty" calories, the author lays the blame of many ills onto sugar consumption, and does so plausibly. The book also demonstrates the power of industry to alter government, even when the change is against the best interest of the public.
Having been an avid reader in the last few years of diet and exercise plans, I already knew the message that this twenty-five-year-old book would deliver, but I didn’t expect it to be so captivating. Also read recently: The Warrior Diet—how to eat like a Roman legionnaire. It’s interesting, but not nearly the page turner that is Sugar Blues. War, slavery, plague—and plaque. Sugar Blues has it all.