Montauk Point

The tale behind this song starts many years ago when I was a mere girl, and my mother used to ground me from listening to the radio as punishment for my various misbehaviors.  I did not yet own any records or cassettes (remember those?) of my own, so I was forced to listen to my parents' collection.  One was a 78 of people singing the Lord's Prayer, with a father and his little daughter discussing what it meant.  When I played it at 45, suddenly their innocent dialogue seemed to acquire a new meaning as the little girl became a bored whore and her father became her DADDY. Sometime later, when hip hop and techno arrived on the scene, I dreamed of sampling that 78 played at 45, but who knows where it is now? So I used Garage Band to reproduce their dialogue:  "Are they gonna sing now, Daddy?" "Yes, Darling!" "That would be wonderful, Daddy!" "Yes, Darling!"  I created the animation in Xtranormal; thanks to Richard Bonomo for that excellent suggestion!

One summer Tiffy and I drove to Long Island to visit my uncle, and we took a day trip out to Montauk Point because Tiffy said, "We can visit the World Trade Center next time we're here."  This was in 1999, and we didn't visit within the next two years.  Still, driving down the Nawth Fawk (which is how they saw "North Fork," the bad word is pronounced "fwuk") was a lot of fun, and we went winery hopping on the way to Montauk. The trip inspired me to come up with a short ditty about Montauk in the style of the Andrews Sisters; the tune may not be original, but nobody can tell me exactly what it is.  The words are all mine.  

And a big shout-out to Kathbert for pointing out that "joint" would rhyme with "point," and for being willing to be a lighthouse!

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The Light Bright Guide to Asthma

Today I spent the whole workday editing some dictation Light Bright had typed up, while she spends the next week frolicking in Mexico. As always, correcting her attempts to type what she hears is a very entertaining undertaking, helped by the fact that she tends to do inexplicable things like underline half a sentence for no discernible reason, and then midway through the document everything will switch from single-spaced to double-spaced. However, it is the spelling errors that Spell Check does not catch, because they are words but just not the right words, which really made my day. “Asses” is a word, but it doesn’t mean assess, no matter how many times you try to use it that way. So without further ado, here is the Light Bright Guide to Asthma for your amusement and edification:

Coughing is ubiquis in asthma. Cereal tests should be run to dreamtime the diagnosis and rule out other underling causes, practically gastroeospofogial reflex disease but also COPD and CF. After tests are preformed, asses results to see if peek flow is bellow expected for age and gender. During the six-minute walk test, make sure patient does not suffer severe leg ramps.  One purposed cause for asthma is genetic, another is environment. Clod whether can cause exasperations, as can underlining allergies. People with musical skeletal disorders may have trouble using inhaler devises. Atni-corticosteroids can help with apregulating receptor functions, but site effects in elderly patience can include glaucoma and skin thinking.

Toque McToque and I have finally figured out why she makes more than we do: we are just office workers, but she is an entertainer!

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The Tale of the FOX and the Paper Towels

Not to brag or anything, but this afternoon they told me I was the fastest blood donor all day.  Five minutes, thirteen seconds, baby!!  That's a whole liter of awesome right there.

I am going to violate my own rule regarding not blogging about work because, well, I am really angry now.  Plus it must be a funny story, judging from other people's reactions.  So this past week there was a day, let's call it Peon Appreciation Day, when bosses everywhere have to pretend they can stand their underlings.  Personally I think this day should be banished, even if I do get free lunch out of it, because I'm not into feigning that we all love each other for a day.  Fortunately hubie, who refers to me as his "secretary" every other day of the year (except Christmas, natch) somehow forgets I am his alleged secretary on this day...  but another evil overlord never does.  I will not even reveal this person's gender and I will refer to this person as FOX because, as Toque McToque and I have noted, this person is not interested in hearing the other side of the story, at least when it is MY side.  (I apologize to my conservative readers for that reference but you know it's true.)  So FOX had declared we would have lunch at noon, purchased with FOX's own funds from a wonderful local Italian restaurant.  And when you think Italian food, you think of marinara sauce, right?  So here's how it went down:

At a quarter to noon, FOX burst into my office, holding a bag containing our lunches, and shoved it into my arms, barking, "It's leaking!  No, hold it from the BOTTOM!"  So I stood there getting marinara sauce all over my hands as FOX disappeared, I assumed to the nearby restroom to retrieve some paper towels.  Meanwhile Light Bright ambled back into the office, I explained my quandry, and she found some paper towels in her desk.  Just then FOX rushed back into the office, sans paper towels... and immediately snatched away the paper towels Light Bright had just found for me!  (Toque insisted that verb is better than "stole" so just ignore how dirty it sounds.)  I meekly said, "I need some paper towels too," and FOX snarled at me, "Take it to the lunch room!" just exactly as if I didn't need to lock my computer or, you know, take the bathroom break I had planned to take in the quarter hour before the scheduled beginning of lunch.  So my point is this:  bosses, I for one would rather we just ignore this whole Peon Appreciation Day thing than that you feel obligated to buy me lunch and then use it as an opportunity to demonstrate your real feelings about me.  (As if I didn't already know.)

This is one FOX who is not quick, not brown, and not jumping over any lazy dogs.  Oh, and lunch (what hadn't leaked, anyway) was delicious.

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The. Worst. Song. Ever. Period.

On Easter Day my peeps (non-marshmallow) and I were sitting around talking about whatever, and I casually threw out the fact that I personally consider “Afternoon Delight” the worst song ever written. This is because of the monotonous beat and execrable equal temperament major key-ness of the tune, not the subject matter. I am not in any way opposed to the idea of getting a little sumpin sumpin during daylight hours. The imagery is cheesy as well: “Skyrockets in flight”? I was thinking that if you are going to invoke explosives in your song, you should at least have the decency to sound like Pantera. So then I was imagining a Pantera song on this theme:

Nuclear mushroom cloud!
I’ll annihilate you!
So come on over b*tch!
Your doom is at two!
(Smokin’ Dimebag Darrell solo. RIP Dimebag!)

Or how about an Usher take on this theme:

(Whispering) Come over here.
(Crooning) Ooh girl I want
To ignite with you,
We’ll start out at two,
Take off all your clothes,
You’ll incinerate till four,
From your head to your toes
And then we’ll do it some more.

But other people were saying no, the worst song ever is the “Friday” song. I was unfamiliar with the “Friday” song, so they found it on YouTube. It does have one advantage over “Afternoon Delight,” in that it cannot get stuck in your head because it does not actually have a tune. It features lines of such scintillating intelligence as “Today is Friday, yesterday was Thursday, tomorrow is Saturday,” and “It’s Friday, Friday, Friday,” but the line that really got me was, “Friends in the front seat, friends in the back seat, I have to decide where to sit.” Really? This strikes me as the absolute nadir of American culture. How many girls her age are wondering where they will find their next meal or how they will care for their younger siblings now that Mom and Dad have died from AIDS/at the hands of the rebels/under mysterious circumstances in prison because of their political views? Or even teenagers in this country who have their basic needs met but spend Friday nights wondering which version of Solitaire to play – how are they supposed to feel watching some hot teen and her hot teen friends (so one has braces, she still looks like a model) debate about what seat to take in the convertible as they drive from party to party? No wonder the teen suicide rate is so high.

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Resurrection Rave

Here is the techno song I wrote for Easter, "Resurrection Rave."

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Jade Necklace Seeks Compatible Accessories

One thing I find fascinating about social networking websites is that people who are long dead or entirely imaginary have their own page… or usually pages.  To my surprise, there are at least three for Buxtehude.  Who knew?  Today I discovered that the Catechism of the Catholic Church has its own page.  Check it out.  Apparently the Catechism is 101 years old and lives in St. Louis, which might explain why I like that city so much.  The Catechism is a straight married Capricorn male with children, which is a relief.  I’d hate to think it was a gay Libra transsexual with a relationship status that is complicated.  But now I am wondering about other inanimate objects.  Do they have their own websites?  For example, what if my jade necklace had its own social networking page?

Jade_Necklace@MyFace.com

About me: I am a jade necklace with a silver bamboo pattern. My interests include matching bracelets, hanging around (necks), and jewelry boxes.

Status: Single, but I really match Famous Hat's jade bracelet pretty well
Here for: meeting like-minded accessories
Orientation: Usually straight, sometimes crooked
Religion: I have been inside Catholic and Lutheran churches
Zodiac Sign: Aries (I guess - Famous Hat got me in April one year)

I don't smoke, but with the right ensemble, I can be smokin'!

So if you know of any jewelry looking for a friend, have them check out Jade Necklace's website.

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The Syrian Equivalent of Six Flags

I was telling Toque McToque a story about a coworker whose high school-age son is on a class trip to an exotic foreign country. I said wow, when I was in school, we went to the state park down the road for our class trips, and my coworker said in his day they went to the equivalent of a Six Flags amusement park. Since this guy grew up in Syria, Toque was wondering what the Syrian equivalent of a Six Flags would be, and she found this online. Good work, Agent McToque.

For all you sadistic parents out there I have observed over the years, you don’t have to go all the way to Damascus to show your rugrats a good time that will leave them screaming in terror. There are all kinds of entertainment options in this country to show them how much you wish they had never been born, starting with scary knock-offs of a Six Flags amusement park.

Rickety Rides: Strap the kiddies in and you get ten minutes to yourself as they spin around on something that looks like it was built at the start of the Industrial Revolution. If one of them pukes afterwards, that’s just icing on the cake, but it’s a total win if one barfs during the ride, sharing the joy with all the other ankle biters.

Throw Them to the Goats: Farm animals are dangerous. Why do you think farmers have so many children? So they can tag team the rooster while collecting eggs. (Also, that way if you run over one or two with the combine, you still have a bunch left.) What could be more fun – for you – than forcing a tiny child into a pen full of goats that are bigger than she is? Added entertainment value is generally available for 25 cents in the form of food to put into your tot’s hand, in case her clothes weren’t attracting enough attention from the goats’ mouths.

Museums: Let’s face it, this one is win-win because you can claim you are exposing the little darlings to “culture” when you are really exposing them to “ennui.” Make sure it is not one of those sneaky museums that has an area catering to children. There must be nothing they can touch, and they must stay absolutely silent. Remember, if they can’t keep it up, you have every excuse to take them out and wallop them.

This is why I don't have children.  If I wanted to torture people, there are plenty of them here at work who actually deserve it.
 
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This Post Courtesy of Rockstar Tailor

Not to brag or anything, but I believe I am having an effect on Rockstar Tailor's writing style.  Yesterday her mother Hardingfele called me in a big panic and said, "You didn't post that story about Hairspray yet, did you?"  I said that I did, but I did not call her by Hardingfele's affectionate nickname for her.  Hardingfele heard that she could be the cousin thirteen times removed of the dental hygenist of the sister-in-law of the dog walker of someone who may possibly have been mentioned on this blog before, but I said nobody would ever figure that one out.  Just to be sure, Hardingfele read my post, and so did Rockstar Tailor.  Then we went on a walk, and Rockstar Tailor told us the following story:

Ivy and Olivia wanted to take the elevator to the 800th floor, but they accidentally took it to the negative 56th floor, so Olivia was all polite and asked the receptionist if it was the 800th floor, but the receptionist ignored her so Ivy was all, "Yo, dude!  Is this the 800th floor?"

Commercial Break:  Is your current plumber ugly?  Call 1-800-blah-blah-blah in the next 10 seconds to upgrade now.

Then Ivy and Olivia were in the 1890's and all the ladies were staring at them because of their clothes, so the Bloober gave them poofy dresses.  Then he said they were made of marshmallows, so Ivy and Olivia ate the dresses.  [I'm not saying these dresses were Peep dresses, and I'm not saying they were not Peep dresses, but the fact remains that they were made of marshmallows - FH]  YUM!!!  They were soooo good!  The end.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

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Who Let the Owls Out? (Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!)

Hardingfele is competing with me for “most airheaded coworker,” it seems. She sent me an email today about how she was telling her coworker Hairspray about a great horned owl in her neighborhood. (I have one in my neighborhood too, unless it is the same one, since Hardingfele and I are neighbors.) These are enormous birds, and Hardingfele said she was concerned it could carry off one of her cats. Hairspray then asked why they let the owl out if it can kill cats. Which begs two questions:

1. Who are “They”?

2. What are “They” letting the owl out of? An owl house? Perhaps a bungowlow?

Hardingfele rescued dozens of books her neighbor had thrown out, and she put a number of them in a Famous Hat pile that made me question what exactly she thought I am: a New Age Catholic who enjoys cooking Creole food? I did take some of the books in my pile, and this weekend I started reading one on the history of the Irish people, which apparently started with a dude who was a friend of Moses. Yeeaaahhh. Another book was an astrology tome I remembered owning as a teenager, but it does not seem terribly accurate anymore, at least about my sign, Capricorn. Unless I am the world’s most aggressive social climber who hates everyone unless I can step on them to get ahead, and I’m boring to boot. So I read the one for Sagittarius, in case that Parke Kunkel guy was actually right and that’s what I am, but that didn’t seem like me either. Odder still, it was totally dead-on for Hardingfele, so I can’t explain that; had they both been inaccurate, I could have just concluded it was all a bunch of Taurus. So I read Aquarius, and that didn’t sound like me either, but it was EXACTLY like Richard Bonomo. So then I read Tiffy’s sign, Virgo, and that was even worse than mine and really didn’t sound like her either. Especially if she’s reading this. Kathbert is annoyed that I didn’t see if Libra sounded like her, which could break the tie, but hey, I only have so much time to devote to this study. The most obvious conclusion I can come to is that this “Linda Goodman” person just hates Capricorns and Virgos, but I will have to get back to you after checking out the accuracy of Kathbert’s description.

Today I was in a horribly pissy mood at work, partly because I was supposed to go to a meeting but had forgotten to order lunch, so they didn’t have a lunch for me. However, the solution was simple: I skipped the meeting. My mood improved even more after I got off the elevator on the floor that was specifically forbidden today for no obvious reason. And guess what? That floor still existed. Tune in tomorrow to find out what other rules I will ignore.

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Still Alive

I didn't mean to freak everyone out by blogging about a car accident and then being silent for two days.  It was purely a coincidence; Rich had a cold this past weekend, and then Wednesday morning I woke up with it.  He had said I might be sore from the car accident, but so far I haven't felt any negative effects from that.  Erin will get a new bumper in a week and a half, and the guy who hit me said he would pay for it himself because he doesn't want to get his insurance company involved.  Hmm...  I'm really thinking they are tired of paying claims for him, and he doesn't want his premium to go up any higher.

Here is a picture of Toque McToque at the Zombie Walk with her Zombie Sign.  No idea who to give credit for this photo; her coworker found in on Facebook somewhere.

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Erin O'Honda: Bashed in Back

Tonight poor Erin Caitlyn O'Honda got rear-ended by a big old Ford F150.  This is how it went down:  I had my Date Night with Jesus as usual for a Tuesday evening, and then I planned to stop by Richard Bonomo's house to start a new rave song on Aquinas.  So I was turning left from one main drag to another right in the heart of campus, and as anyone knows who has driven through a campus area, they are full of hazards like pedestrians and bicyclists who pay absolutely no attention to you.  A couple of pedestrians crossed the road, and then I was about to turn when a bicyclist appeared, so I stopped and BOMP suddenly I was sailing through the intersection anyway.  Luckily the bicyclist stopped, and I turned the wheel further left to avoid him and the light post and pedestrians waiting to cross in the other direction.  The dude who hit me was some white guy who looked to be not quite 30, and while I have never been in an accident before, he seemed to know exactly what to do.  We pulled over and exchanged information, and he made some comment about how he had just gotten his bumper fixed.  I looked at his bumper, which appeared completely undamaged, and then at mine, which was about to fall off, and he said, "Well, it's not as bad as yours."  I am thinking this is not the first time Mr. F150 has rear-ended someone.  Poor little Erin - what chance did she ever have against a big, mean pickup truck?  So I continued on to Rich's house, and just to add to my gloomy mood a cop followed me all the way until I turned onto Rich's street.  Usually Rich works late on Tuesdays, so I was still all set to start my rave song, but he was actually home so we ended up driving Erin to the shop, and he brought me back in the Bonomobile and will have to take me all the way home too. 

The only good thing is that Erin's maintenance light had come on recently, and I kept meaning to clean her out before taking her in, but now I was forced to take her in, messy interior and all.  She was past due for her 90,000 mile checkup, since she's almost at 100,000 miles.  She is only eleven, and my previous Honda Sydney lived to be seventeen before my friends forced me to donate her to some place that fixes up old cars.  (She was kind of being held together with duct tape at that point.) And guess what?  They couldn't fix her up so they sold her for parts, but she still got me a sweet little tax write-off.  Good old Syd, a reliable friend to the end.  (I bought her from Tiffy.)  And Sydney had to live outside in the elements, but Erin has her own underground parking space so I figured she would live even longer.  (True story:  the first time I got a property tax bill, I did not realize they would send a separate one for the parking space, which I opened first.  Then I thought, "How can people complain about property taxes?  $33 a year sounds awfully cheap to me.")  So Erin is now at the shop for her 90,000 checkup billed to me and some body work to be billed to Mr. F150.  Fortunately I take the bus to work, so this won't affect my life too much.  Not as much as the fact that they are digging up the pedestrian/bike path I use to walk home on these beautiful spring days, but that is another story. 

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Pulp Incunabula

Tiffy recently decided that Kathbert is Richard Bonomo's Wife #1 and I am his Wife #2; this was after Rich got sick and Kathbert called the doctor's office but I was the one who knew his date of birth offhand.  Tiffy has added more wives lately, like Anna Banana II is Wife #3 and she herself is Wife #4.  I told Jilly Moose and OK Cap that if they kept hanging around, they might become Wives #5 and #6.  Luxuli is safe because she has a husband already, but her Pomeranian was flirting so madly with Rich the other night that we joked she would like to become his wife too.

Kathbert keeps insisting that I should be Wife #1, so we came up with Spousal Credit Units, or SCUs (pronounced skoos) so that we can assign them to each other and bump the other one further up the uxorial scale.  Suddenly today Kathbert got an unfair advantage, thanks to the Mothership:  Rich has a bad case of laryngitis, and when the Mothership called, she thought he was being stubborn about insisting he is not sick, so she asked to speak to me.  By name.  The worst part is that Tiffy, who started the whole thing, was there to witness it.  (And so was Anna Banana II.)  They all laughed and said the Mothership had spoken, I was Wife #1, and since I could not prove Kathbert had plotted the whole thing with the Mothership beforehand, I had to accept several thousand SCUs.  (The Mothership wanted me to make sure Rich did not talk too much today, and that he drank some tea with lemon and honey.)  So now I need a real miracle to bump Kathbert back up over me in the ratings.

Anyway, while Tiffy was in town, we created a techno song called "Pulp Incunabula."  (I did all the work and she just offered some opinions about beats and stuff.)  We thought this was an oxymoron, that incunabula were handwritten books from before the printing press, but in fact they are the earliest books created on the printing press, from 1450 to 1501 (an end date that was arbitrarily assigned), and there were some trashy romance novels printed... so pulp incunabula DID exist!  Tiffy had to head home before I finished completely, then Kathbert helped me make the video, which she ultimately felt was too educational and detracted from the coolness of the song.  What can you do?  I needed to make a video in order to post it on this blog, since I do not know how to post sound files.  I will let you, gentle readers, decide for yourselves if this video seems too pedantic for the song.

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Another CROSS Adventure

This evening Tiffy and I went to a vegan restaurant for dinner and then to a Baroque music concert a block away, mostly Bach but one violin concerto by Tartini.  The concert was at this venue:

Thanks to the anonymous young artist who created this incredibly detailed and accurate drawing of the interior of Trinity Lutheran Church on the back of a collection envelope.  Now imagine that instead of a minister, there are a bunch of string instruments in front of the altar.  That is what Citizens for the Return Of Sanity to Sound (CROSS) saw, and what did CROSS hear?  Sounds as divine as the setting!  No equal temperament to be found at this concert.  F minor, D minor, and E minor all had different colors, and G major in the Brandenberg Concerto #3 never sounded so bright and cheery.  What a fantastic concert!  CROSS and the other attendees (including some white guy with impressive dreadlocks sitting right behind us) gave the performers a standing ovation.  So remember:  when you want to hear Baroque music, be sure to request it equal temperament-free.  Both you and the music deserve better.

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Giving You the Bird

Since I have given up computer games for Lent, I spent my lunch hour experimenting with Photo Shop.  The original image is a Cock of the Rock, a bird whose looks are even more ridiculous than its name.  Here is the original photo:

And here is what I spent my lunch hour doing to it:

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Adventures in Empathetic Prayer

Yesterday I prayed the Chaplet of the Seven Sorrows of Our Lady instead of playing ePlush over my lunch break, as is my Lenten wont, and it occurred to me on the second sorrow that putting myself in Mary’s place would make the prayer that much more meaningful. (So I didn’t imagine hearing the Prophecy of Simeon.) It was so vivid: I could imagine during the Flight to Egypt that I would be tired and hot and thirsty, not to mention trying desperately to learn Coptic since I only spoke Aramaic. Then I could imagine searching for my missing preteen son, running desperately all over Jerusalem, hollering, “Yeshua! Where are you?” I could imagine St. John and Mary Magdalene trying to convince me not to see how they were treating my Son as He carried His cross, but I would insist and then see Him beaten and staggering under the heavy cross, and I would think, “Unfair! Even the worst criminals are either beaten or crucified, but not both! And what has my Son done? Spoken about the love of God? Healed the sick?” I could imagine myself watching them nail Him to the cross and waiting below it as He died, and the soldier spearing His side, and being amazed to see water and blood pouring out. I imagined Mary Magdalene saying the one blessing of His having been beaten is at least He didn’t suffer as long on the cross. I imagined the soldiers taking Him down from the cross and placing him in my arms, and I rocked Him like an infant, murmuring, “My son! My son!” I could even imagine how bewildered I would be when the soldiers told me some man named Joseph from Arimathea had claimed the body, but St. John talked to him and found out he was secretly a disciple of my Son, and I felt a tiny bit of joy that at least His followers might continue what He had begun. I imagined we all followed Joseph to a new tomb in a lovely garden, and I felt some peace when anointing my Son’s body with herbs and wrapping it in linen, seeing that at least in death He would have some of the dignity He was not given during His execution.

Sounds very spiritual and Lenten, right? So logically I thought it would be a great idea to use the same technique while praying the Rosary. However, yesterday being Wednesday, I prayed the Glorious Mysteries…with much less success using this imagination technique. The first Glorious Mystery was fine, as I imagined my joy at discovering my Son had risen from the dead, but trying to imagine the Ascension was difficult because I got stuck on the question of whether Jesus ascended slowly or quickly. Then I got really distracted trying to imagine Pentecost, because all I could think was, “Now do I have all knowledge? Does that mean I understand calculus?” And the last two Glorious Mysteries? Forget it! I have no idea what it would be like to be assumed body and soul into Heaven, or to be crowned Queen of Heaven and Earth. So this method of praying definitely has its limits, at least for me.

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Madtown 1911

I found this amazing footage on YouTube.  Apparently Madison was just as crazy a century ago as it is today.  Here is the St. Patrick's Day parade from 1911.

And because you know how I like to post pictures, here are some from the second day of Daylight Savings Time, when Kathbert and I took advantage of the extra hour of daylight to take a walk in the Arboretum.  Here is a picture of some geese on Lake Wingra, which is a scene very similar to one a person could have seen in 1911.

Here is a close-up of a pussy willow opening, much as it would have in the spring of 1911.

Here is a sunset over Lake Wingra, just like one that could be seen on an evening in 1911.

However, in 1911, as in my day, most people carved their own or their sweetheart's name into wooden surfaces like this railing on the boardwalk. But what are those crazy kids carving nowadays?  Check it out - the food pyramid!

Speaking of food, these photos were all taken on 3/14, which is Pi Day, so a local bakery was selling pieces of pie for $3.14.  Which would probably be an exorbitant price in 1911, but in 2011 it sounded like a deal, so I got a slice of Packer Backer pie to celebrate Pi Day.  It's only once a year, after all.  Much like St. Patrick's Day three days later, which is still being celebrated in Madtown in much the same way as a century ago.

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Guess What? We're Protesting!

Today:  two posts for the price of one!  Hardingfele and I went up to the Square for the big protest today, the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr's assassination.  Here are some photos:

And here is a movie of the bikes in action:

And here are a couple more short movies of the protest:

Then we missed our bus and got a ride from the Deacon and the Irish Doctor, and then Hardingfele made an omelet and screwdrivers.  Can you tell I've had some vodka?  Yes?  Now Rockstar Tailor is writing a "personal narrative" about Hardingfele taking her to a friend's house on her motorcycle.  (n.b. Hardingfele does not really own a motorcycle.)

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Zombie Bunnies

Toque McToque and I were wondering if only humans can be zombies.  As you can tell from this shocking piece of evidence, the answer is NO!!!  They are coming for us, and they want our bananas!!!  Or brains!!  Or... something!!

When I showed this picture to my office mate Light Bright, she did not get it.  Toque McToque pointed out that Light Bright would be perfectly safe in a room full of zombies; after all, they only go after brains.

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Zombie Walk

Yesterday Richard Bonomo and I watched the Zombie Walk down State Street.  Mind you, this was not a frivolous Zombie Walk; it was a Zombie Walk to protest Scott Walker.

Figure A:  Scott Walker

OK, I admit that it is somewhat presumptuous of me to assume that this voodoo doll in a planter full of cigarette butts is supposed to be Scott Walker.  It could just as easily be Scott Fitzgerald.

Here is a three-minute movie of the Zombie Walk.  Toque McToque had said she was going to attend, and I may have spotted her in this movie.  See if you can spot her too.

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Planting Guinness the Juniper

Here is a picture of the Cuddly Rosaries my mother knits in red, yellow, and blue:

Aren't they cute?  Wouldn't you like one for yourself?  I have three red ones immediately available, and my mother is happy to knit them in any color you like.  They are $20 plus $1 to cover shipping costs.

Today Kathbert and I planted the little juniper that has been taking up so much space in Plant World in Richard Bonomo's sunny backyard, where it will hopefully be very happy.  Rich, meanwhile, was searching for a different shovel, and Luxuli brought out a bottle of Guinness to split among us, so we decided to call the juniper Guinness.  Here is a photo of it after we planted it:

On the right you can see the shovel Kathbert and I used (Rich located the "better" one just as we finished putting the dirt back), and on the left you can see the edge of the pot Guinness lived in while it resided in Plant World.  After the successful planting, we celebrated by throwing black walnuts at the pot, trying to make a basket.  Luxuli won, then Rich came in second, Kathbert got a rebound off the back stairs, and I was dead last... but I did finally do it.  Here is a close-up of Guinness:

And, for Hardingfele, here is a picture of the pastel tortoiseshell cat we had never seen before, who hung around as we planted Guinness the Juniper.  She didn't have a collar so we don't know her name.

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Fish Fry Descends into Chaos

Check out this shocking story I found online today:

Springfield – a church basement fish fry descended into chaos on April 1, 2011 when a Protestant somehow snuck in.  The deception was not discovered until the pastor of Our Lady of Good Perch, Father Noah Boddy, led the gathering in the typical pre-prandial Papist prayer that begins, “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts…” and Calvin Luther slipped up and used the word “your” instead of “thy.”  Worse, he pronounced the final word of the prayer “AH-men” instead of the more typical, incorrect Catholic pronunciation of “AY-men,” thus arousing the suspicion of the diners around him.  When questioned about his denominational loyalties, Luther leapt over the table and tried to escape out the basement door, but he was seized by two brawny acolytes, and soon the entire basement was thrown into pandemonium.  Damage incurred include a corpus separated from a crucifix, possibly by Luther, and an entire pan of Mrs. O’Malley’s homemade brownies flung at Officer Dougherty as he attempted to get things under control.

When will we ever learn?

Famous Hat