Tomorrow I might try whispering to it that Gandolf is waiting.
And it was pretty good! We boiled it in cooking class, you dip the whole guy in boiling water 4 times to curl up the legs before leaving it in the water. It was pretty creepy when the suction cups stuck to the cutting board when I was slicing it, but I had to remind myself, that's just physics, not the leg trying to stay out of our bellies.
I look at this photo and don't understand why on God's green earth if you ask any dude, they will admit they would volunteer to go colonize Mars.
And they are serious!
But I just remembered! That book!
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.
I haven't read it, but I am sure it explains how men lack the gift of foresight and don't realize any women sent up to the red planet aren't going to be
the "Hot Chicks."
And just thinking of them all -
stuck up there, staring out at the dirt tornados, unplayed guitars
piled in the corner covered in the pervading red dim
(of course they ALL brought guitars) -
while brainiac women take charge and cultivate life from nothing...
well, that just puts a smile on my face.
It's a song by Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballe; I only know it because one weekend I watched a documentary about Freddie M. I'll forever have this song in my brain. "Barcelona!" Is what I thought when I turned the corner and saw this little delight. And good grief, wouldn't ya know that the live video for the song is no joke done just in front of here.
Wins every time:
Best Bed Head
(With honorable mention in the
general So Damned Precious category &
runner up for Talent portion with a captivating
rendition of "3 Little Speckled Fwogs")
"Jingle bells, Batman smells,
Robin laid an egg!"
"Hey! Dat not nice!"
"What?... Batman smells?"
"Dat not nice [emphasizes by shaking curls].
Gotta be niiiiice!"
Thanks for keeping me in line,
(It is going to snow this weekend. Geez.)
I was able to check in with my favorite
family this weekend. They are doing really well, and I just happened to drop by
when they were having a party but
hadn't thought to setup enough chairs.
Luckily Cambi had them covered,
"Dingdong. Oh, hi! I don't have a chair... Here's a chair to you!"
Over and over and over.
Over and over and over.
When BAB left for 6 weeks in Spain, I asked her to bring me back a crucifix & she promised to find the scariest one with dripping blood, and after the door closed behind her I may or may not have had to cry in the kitchen for a little bit, but then Tiny let me wear the Sherlock Holmes hat, and that helped.
"What are you going to do for 6 weeks in Spain?"
"Well, I plan to eat a lot... pray a lot... love a lot."
- el babino
I should probably be one of those museum people who say "No photographs!" because it truly drives me nuts when people insist on sneaking pictures of chandeliers that they only want a picture of because it ain't allowed.
The worst thing about the internet is the abundant wealth of knowledge at your fingertips. There is no question you can think of that hasn't been answered by somebody somewhere. You have lost your lackluster freedom to just "wonder" "why" something does something. If you ask that generic question, odds are you will be told to "google that shit, dummy." You can't just keep on wondering and contentedly leave it hanging off an unconnected synapse, hoping somehow (without any effort of your own) the answer will come to you. Take for example this jar of honey I got in my stocking 3 years ago. Not this past Christmas, or the one before that, but the one before THAT. It has been in my work cupboard since then, used constantly for high-noon tea-time and YET it has not crystalized. My only theory is the honey comb. Those little bees have some sort of magical power stored in the wax that keeps the gold flowing. I am filled with wonder everytime I pull out the jar. Why does it do the things it do?
Somebody google it! But please! Try not to just say the answer without any flare for reveal. I want you to tell me that you learned it working at a nunnery in the Himalayas, where they kept bees warm in the cold climate by chanting prayers (with lots of zzz sounds) all through the night. And during an especially cold shift, just when you thought you maybe shouldn't be there, a nun let you in on the secrets of the honey flow.
But, if you just "googled it," keep that boring shit to yourself.
Who is to say that the chapstick I found on the sidewalk that looks just like a chapstick I own, was the same chapstick? Maybe a petri dish DNA test result in a lab, but not I. Not I. Yet, I picked you up - went so far as to remove your tiny cap - but when I stared at the smooth balm with the inevitably grey-tinged center clump, I wasn't so certain you unknowingly dropped from my pocket minutes earlier as I walked by. It is the age old question that asks if a tree falling in a forest makes a noise if no one is there to hear it? When (IF) you fell from my person, you did not cry out, thus sealing your fate as an unidentifiable outcast. In all honesty, I'd be more willing to press my lips to that tree than your plastic tube. If you are indeed the very same chapstick I once carried around, please forgive me for first dropping you on the sidewalk, for second not realizing you were missing, for third not being able to tell you apart from any other candy cane chapstick that isn't found in the ordinary habitat of my car cupholder or bottom of backpack crumbs or winter coat pocket or please-no-omg the dryer (away from those places, you become anonymous) and for forth making me cringe just looking at you. So you reach the fate of all chapsticks adrift: the trashcan burial. And for that, the fifth forgiveness.