Your pilgrim: Wrote Code. He did, blatantly, and in front of god and everybody, because he is such a shameless blatant programmer-writer, who loves programming and coding and writing and stuff.
Further, he wrote Lots Of It. (Also, Said code is really good, because your pilgrim Wrote It.)
Further, your pilgrim has been doing it, this code-writing, at big urgent fevered fun creative pace, since like last Thursday.
Anyways ... fun, good, stuff. I think it might work. So, happies, and stuff ...
Good thing I finished my First Collection of Poems in late November. So like, That's Done.
So, um, The End, and: I love you all.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Feel the love
In writing the hed, your pilgrim was being ironic, cuz what he really wants is: to be funny. Or clever. But also: Mock Those Who Deserve It.
I'm reminded of what Happy Bunny sez: "Hate is a just a *special* kind of love we give to people who suck." But don't waste time on hatin', y'all. Not even this guy, quoted below. (About and because of whom your pilgrim wrote all this.) Hate is for haters. Let them have it.
Anyway, Andrew Sullivan quotes this guy, filed under the Hathos Alert/Malkin Award:
No problem, dude, you squishy squeakee charmer you. Happy to be dead to you. Grateful, even. Truly.
Meantime: Live long and fester, man.
I'm wondering though, how far Mr Dondero is willing to take this. Would he, for example, fuck a pure conservative Republican woman, if said woman, who was willing to fuck him, had a mother or brother or half-sister, twice-removed, who voted for Obama? Or even marked an absentee ballot for the Kenyan Socialist Freedom Annihilator, but slept late, because poor and one of the *takers*, and did not get to the post office in time.
UPDATE: Your pilgrim swears, he does, that he conceived and typed and crafted and revised and Google-checked a quote and clicked the Publish button too, after reading Sully's post only, (and he might have been at his desk at his job) all of which was so totes before reading this on Wonkette, written by Editrix Extraordinaire Rebecca Schoenkopf, Esquire, whom your pilgrim luvs secretly and from afar.
Further, your pilgrim would never steal or copy cool funny stuff from her desmesne. (She knows what the word means. The rest of y'all, look it up. Or crack open your brit-lit anthology from college. It'll be in the second volume, Romantic Period.) No. Not without giving gushing praise and credit and all the Wonkers Gay Love I have for Her Editrix, and for all who slave happily too in the Employ of her Empire, which is communist, because she is Commie Girl, awesome daughter of Commie Mom the also awesome. Thursdays, she leads the happy workers in song, I hear.
No, your pilgrim, um, avers. I would only draw inspiration, with most proper linky-thing credit included in me post. (And afterwards maybe a thank-you note and invitation to tea some afternoon) All that, so's I can be: More Funniez. (Yo, Becks: Air Kiss!)
I'm reminded of what Happy Bunny sez: "Hate is a just a *special* kind of love we give to people who suck." But don't waste time on hatin', y'all. Not even this guy, quoted below. (About and because of whom your pilgrim wrote all this.) Hate is for haters. Let them have it.
Anyway, Andrew Sullivan quotes this guy, filed under the Hathos Alert/Malkin Award:
"All family and friends, even close family and friends, who I know to be Democrats are hereby dead to me. I vow never to speak to them again for the rest of my life, or have any communications with them. They are in short, the enemies of liberty. They deserve nothing less than hatred and utter contempt. I strongly urge all other libertarians to do the same. Are you married to someone who voted for Obama, have a girlfriend who voted 'O'. Divorce them. Break up with them without haste. Vow not to attend family functions, Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas for example, if there will be any family members in attendance who are Democrats," _ Eric Dondero, LibertarianRepublican.net.
No problem, dude, you squishy squeakee charmer you. Happy to be dead to you. Grateful, even. Truly.
Meantime: Live long and fester, man.
I'm wondering though, how far Mr Dondero is willing to take this. Would he, for example, fuck a pure conservative Republican woman, if said woman, who was willing to fuck him, had a mother or brother or half-sister, twice-removed, who voted for Obama? Or even marked an absentee ballot for the Kenyan Socialist Freedom Annihilator, but slept late, because poor and one of the *takers*, and did not get to the post office in time.
UPDATE: Your pilgrim swears, he does, that he conceived and typed and crafted and revised and Google-checked a quote and clicked the Publish button too, after reading Sully's post only, (and he might have been at his desk at his job) all of which was so totes before reading this on Wonkette, written by Editrix Extraordinaire Rebecca Schoenkopf, Esquire, whom your pilgrim luvs secretly and from afar.
Further, your pilgrim would never steal or copy cool funny stuff from her desmesne. (She knows what the word means. The rest of y'all, look it up. Or crack open your brit-lit anthology from college. It'll be in the second volume, Romantic Period.) No. Not without giving gushing praise and credit and all the Wonkers Gay Love I have for Her Editrix, and for all who slave happily too in the Employ of her Empire, which is communist, because she is Commie Girl, awesome daughter of Commie Mom the also awesome. Thursdays, she leads the happy workers in song, I hear.
No, your pilgrim, um, avers. I would only draw inspiration, with most proper linky-thing credit included in me post. (And afterwards maybe a thank-you note and invitation to tea some afternoon) All that, so's I can be: More Funniez. (Yo, Becks: Air Kiss!)
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Let us now Enjoy: Very Cool Words
So, your pilgrim has this Most Coolest Awesome-est Friend and Fellow Journalist-more-extraordinaire
Let us all pause now to say: Wow.
Lactation is the usual word for this amazing mammalian miracle. It's the term you will see in medical texts, and in the literature too from the La Leche League, there to help possibly anxious new mothers deal with problems, including physician/family/workplace/culture hostility to the Naked Breast-Baring Audacity of Nursing, which all mammals have always done, but which some in these latter days, have insisted is *so* not appropos for homo sapiens in civilization today. The La Leche lit would also have supportive sensitive advice on what to do about problems like nipple irritation, important stuff like that.
Anyways, all that is very important. But Your Pilgrim Wants Y'all to Know: There is this cooler, more awesome word for this most normal miracle: Galactopoesis.
Milk-making is the plain literal meaning. But we have our connotations of the constituent words, and therefore think more along the lines of Galaxy-Maker, or Galaxy-Poet.
Galactopoesis! How cool is that? Us writers and poets and dictionary-lovers so totally Eat This Stuff Up. (And sometimes we *decide* to write 'us' when we know perfectly well that the correct pronoun case to use is the nominative, not the objective.)
[S] is making milk. What are your superpowers?What my friend was doing, most naturally near automatically and most casually miraculously too, was lactating. As in, her mammary glands, known coarsely as Boobs, were: Making Milk, Making Nourishment for her own newly born child.
Let us all pause now to say: Wow.
Lactation is the usual word for this amazing mammalian miracle. It's the term you will see in medical texts, and in the literature too from the La Leche League, there to help possibly anxious new mothers deal with problems, including physician/family/workplace/culture hostility to the Naked Breast-Baring Audacity of Nursing, which all mammals have always done, but which some in these latter days, have insisted is *so* not appropos for homo sapiens in civilization today. The La Leche lit would also have supportive sensitive advice on what to do about problems like nipple irritation, important stuff like that.
Anyways, all that is very important. But Your Pilgrim Wants Y'all to Know: There is this cooler, more awesome word for this most normal miracle: Galactopoesis.
Milk-making is the plain literal meaning. But we have our connotations of the constituent words, and therefore think more along the lines of Galaxy-Maker, or Galaxy-Poet.
As
astronomy developed, there were fuzzy white patches increasingly observed in
the sky. Their census grew in number and detail, as observers' optics developed. Through it all, the
metaphor persisted, because it stayed so ineluctable to the observers and cataloguers: Wow: This is so Milky. Hence: galaxy, galactic. [source: Your Pilgrim. Ha!]
Loves me the modern world, I do
Comes now your pilgrim, who affirms and attests, and types on keyboard also, and such significant shit like that:
Around the time relevant when I composed and typed this post: My Android phone, which fits in my pocket, and sleeps by my side at night, charging, was awesomely effortlessly doing the following:
Writing This Post. Important Stuff Like That.
How Cool is that?
The End.
Around the time relevant when I composed and typed this post: My Android phone, which fits in my pocket, and sleeps by my side at night, charging, was awesomely effortlessly doing the following:
- Giving access to the worldwide intertubes: for my computer and for Marcia's, here at your pilgrim's home, at Rock Creek & P.
- Pushing me favorite stored music to me ears, via that wireless modern also-miracle known as Bluetooth, which I totes Cranked to the Limit. (Alas. Bluetooth does not go all the way to: Eleven.)
- Oh, it counted down also the cook-time on the pasta I'd started in me kitchen here.
- Other miscellaneous ongoing background miracles of which your pilgrim might have been unaware, but he acknowledges gladly, readily, is most grateful for.
Writing This Post. Important Stuff Like That.
How Cool is that?
The End.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Let us now praise famous guitarists: Eric Johnson
Here is Eric Johnson performing "Cliffs of Dover" on Austin City Limits, 1988.
There are many Eric Johnson performances of this song, my favorite of his, to be found on the intertubes, and I have watched and studied them all, but this one tops my list.
Your pilgrim has studied avidly and practiced the song, of course, and can even imagine putting together a respectable performance, given world enough and time. But: Your pilgrim does not mind telling you: To be able to play this way, so awesomely, I would be *tempted* to make that deal Robert Johnson did, as legend has it, down at the Crossroads.
Also, don't mind tellin ya: Wow. So handsome.
There are many Eric Johnson performances of this song, my favorite of his, to be found on the intertubes, and I have watched and studied them all, but this one tops my list.
Your pilgrim has studied avidly and practiced the song, of course, and can even imagine putting together a respectable performance, given world enough and time. But: Your pilgrim does not mind telling you: To be able to play this way, so awesomely, I would be *tempted* to make that deal Robert Johnson did, as legend has it, down at the Crossroads.
Also, don't mind tellin ya: Wow. So handsome.
My interview with the world, which never interviewed me
Q: What three writers from any time or place would you invite for an evening of drink and dinner and conversation?
A: That's easy: Sappho, Elizabeth Bishop and um, hold on, gimme time, and ...
Q: Interesting.
A: Yeah, thanks, sure. Don't feign sincerity and interest with me
Q: You're right. Sorry.
A: And James Joyce and Annie Dillard. And Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and Nora Ephron, too, because I so wish they hadn't died. And Mitch Hedberg, because he was so funny and so sweet, and I so wish he hadn't died.
Q: The question was three writers.
A: I know. I changed it.
Q: You can't do that.
A: Yes I can. I'm the one writing the questions, remember?
Q: Oh, right. Carry on then.
A: I shall. Gerard Manley Hopkins and John Keats. And Sappho gets to bring her girlfriends, including Erica Jong.
Q: Girlfriends?
A: Yes. I believe she invented the word, in the sense that women use it today, as in "Girls Night Out," and "The Five Girlfriends Every Woman Must Have ..." It's attested in this quotation, numbered 160 by Lobel-Page. It's basically a usage gloss by the writer Athenaios, who says
Q: Hold on, *You* translate? Like from Greek?
A: Yes, from Greek. Yes I do. Sappho wrote in the dialect known as Aeolic. The translating of her barely surviving ouevre is a big part currently of my life's work. Anyway, I translate the fragment this way:
Q: Barnstone didn't do it that way.
A: No, he didn't. But I did. My rendering is more like Anne Carson (2002). And it follows the word order a bit more closely. Always a hazard because it strains the limits of English syntax, which relies more on word order than does Greek, an inflected language.
Q: OK. But back to your guest list. So it's a party, then.
A: Yes it is, yes it is. But if Joyce gets too plastered, I'm cuttin' him off.
Q: Your list has more women than men. Why?
A: Easy: I like women more than men.
Q: I see.
A: Hey! Warned you about faking. Anyways, I included Joyce, despite my concern that he might be a bit too abrasive, too unmodernly un-reconstructed for the 21st century. Mitch, however, I'd expect to be a perfect polite unthreatening non-creepy gentleman, and that all the women at the table would love him, as I do.
Q: Wait. You *love* Mitch Hedberg?
A: Yes, I do.
Q: But, he's like, a guy.
A: So?
Q: What about Joyce?
A: Love only his work.
Q: Any other loves to profess?
A: Certainly. Thanks for asking.
Q: Hey! Self-congratulating, are we?
A: You're right. So, carrying on: I love Sappho and all her girlfriends, and Ms Bishop and Ms Dillard. Don't know Ms Plath and Ms Sexton well enough, so not sure yet. But knowing me, as the evening concludes and everyone gathers coats and belongings and checks purses to make sure they have cab fare, plus tip, back to the afterlife, I'd be gushing to both of them: I love you.
Q: Well then, let's end it here.
A: No, let's not. We'll keep it going, and post another day.
A: That's easy: Sappho, Elizabeth Bishop and um, hold on, gimme time, and ...
Q: Interesting.
A: Yeah, thanks, sure. Don't feign sincerity and interest with me
Q: You're right. Sorry.
A: And James Joyce and Annie Dillard. And Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and Nora Ephron, too, because I so wish they hadn't died. And Mitch Hedberg, because he was so funny and so sweet, and I so wish he hadn't died.
Q: The question was three writers.
A: I know. I changed it.
Q: You can't do that.
A: Yes I can. I'm the one writing the questions, remember?
Q: Oh, right. Carry on then.
A: I shall. Gerard Manley Hopkins and John Keats. And Sappho gets to bring her girlfriends, including Erica Jong.
Q: Girlfriends?
A: Yes. I believe she invented the word, in the sense that women use it today, as in "Girls Night Out," and "The Five Girlfriends Every Woman Must Have ..." It's attested in this quotation, numbered 160 by Lobel-Page. It's basically a usage gloss by the writer Athenaios, who says
And now freeborn women and virgins call their intimate friends *hetairai* as Sappho does in this passage:Athenaios then quotes Sappho, which I translate this way ...
Q: Hold on, *You* translate? Like from Greek?
A: Yes, from Greek. Yes I do. Sappho wrote in the dialect known as Aeolic. The translating of her barely surviving ouevre is a big part currently of my life's work. Anyway, I translate the fragment this way:
Of these things now, for my girlfriends dear, of delight beautifully I shall sing.
Q: Barnstone didn't do it that way.
A: No, he didn't. But I did. My rendering is more like Anne Carson (2002). And it follows the word order a bit more closely. Always a hazard because it strains the limits of English syntax, which relies more on word order than does Greek, an inflected language.
Q: OK. But back to your guest list. So it's a party, then.
A: Yes it is, yes it is. But if Joyce gets too plastered, I'm cuttin' him off.
Q: Your list has more women than men. Why?
A: Easy: I like women more than men.
Q: I see.
A: Hey! Warned you about faking. Anyways, I included Joyce, despite my concern that he might be a bit too abrasive, too unmodernly un-reconstructed for the 21st century. Mitch, however, I'd expect to be a perfect polite unthreatening non-creepy gentleman, and that all the women at the table would love him, as I do.
Q: Wait. You *love* Mitch Hedberg?
A: Yes, I do.
Q: But, he's like, a guy.
A: So?
Q: What about Joyce?
A: Love only his work.
Q: Any other loves to profess?
A: Certainly. Thanks for asking.
Q: Hey! Self-congratulating, are we?
A: You're right. So, carrying on: I love Sappho and all her girlfriends, and Ms Bishop and Ms Dillard. Don't know Ms Plath and Ms Sexton well enough, so not sure yet. But knowing me, as the evening concludes and everyone gathers coats and belongings and checks purses to make sure they have cab fare, plus tip, back to the afterlife, I'd be gushing to both of them: I love you.
Q: Well then, let's end it here.
A: No, let's not. We'll keep it going, and post another day.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Quotes from the Blessed Matron Saint of Your Pilgrim's Blog
Emphasis added, by your Pilgrim blogger:
I have often noticed that these things, which obsess me, neither bother nor impress other people even slightly. I am horribly apt to approach some innocent at a gathering and, like the ancient mariner, fix him with a wild glitt'ring eye and say, "Do you know that in the head of the caterpillar of the ordinary goat moth there are two hundred twenty-eight separate muscles?" The poor wretch flees. I am not making chatter; I mean to change his life. I seem to possess an organ that others lack, a sort of trivia machine. -- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim (1974) 1998, 134.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Happy happy joy joy, Love My Neighborhood Here
It's got Chinese food, 'natch, carry-out and nearby too, because we gots yr Regular Civilization Here. You just like call, and they tell you "Ten minutes," and it's like, for realz, ready for you in ten.
Walked there, less than two blocks from "chez de la casa hut" of Your Pilgrim, in flip-flops, because October and barely three blocks in total steps traversed, and also, Your Pilgrim made: A Promise, To God, last year. For reals.
Lovely sweet man there at the Chinese restaurant place knows me, always remembers my order (Szechuan Chicken) just by looking at Caller ID! Always smiles so slight and brightly, sometimes gives me a half-pint of Hot 'n Sour soup when my customary whole pint is not this time on my order, and never says anything when I use my credit card to pay for an order that is below the "$10 minimum, please."
In the first year of Your Pilgrim's third mission here (August 2010-present), I would go there Every Tuesday of the World.
Love.
Also, the streets here, in Your Pilgrim's 'hood, they (Ack! Double Nomative!) are always lovely brimming full of Happy People, and Gay People too. And on Fridays, 'specially, the female people: They're dressed like: Wow.
Love.
Also, on Fridays 'specially, and as it gets later, even more 'specially, I hear on P Street, nine floors below, the pleasing spoken noise of many happy people, engaged earnestly in rituals both complicated delicately dancing and so very basic foolproof certain too: Hoping To Get Laid. The happy in their noise is soothing and contagious. I wish them well, I do. Bon chance! y'all.
Love.
Anyways, whole lotta happy here, y'all, Whole Lotta Love. And takeout Chinese.
Oh, and: Good shabbos, y'all.
Walked there, less than two blocks from "chez de la casa hut" of Your Pilgrim, in flip-flops, because October and barely three blocks in total steps traversed, and also, Your Pilgrim made: A Promise, To God, last year. For reals.
Lovely sweet man there at the Chinese restaurant place knows me, always remembers my order (Szechuan Chicken) just by looking at Caller ID! Always smiles so slight and brightly, sometimes gives me a half-pint of Hot 'n Sour soup when my customary whole pint is not this time on my order, and never says anything when I use my credit card to pay for an order that is below the "$10 minimum, please."
In the first year of Your Pilgrim's third mission here (August 2010-present), I would go there Every Tuesday of the World.
Love.
Also, the streets here, in Your Pilgrim's 'hood, they (Ack! Double Nomative!) are always lovely brimming full of Happy People, and Gay People too. And on Fridays, 'specially, the female people: They're dressed like: Wow.
Love.
Also, on Fridays 'specially, and as it gets later, even more 'specially, I hear on P Street, nine floors below, the pleasing spoken noise of many happy people, engaged earnestly in rituals both complicated delicately dancing and so very basic foolproof certain too: Hoping To Get Laid. The happy in their noise is soothing and contagious. I wish them well, I do. Bon chance! y'all.
Love.
Anyways, whole lotta happy here, y'all, Whole Lotta Love. And takeout Chinese.
Oh, and: Good shabbos, y'all.
I Biked Home in a Torrent
Since I was wearing jeans, like I do every day that ends in Y, and since proper jeans are made of that thick, shamelessly flagrantly water-lovin' cotton (a well-known paraphilia in the fabric world: "hydrophilic," the other fabrics say with barely veiled disdain), I weighed like 20 extra pounds by the time I got home and it had stopped raining and I could see the waning crescent moon in the now clear non-drenching sky and the only water-drips I detected whilst crossing P Street after buying two Guinness singles at my favorite liquor store were coming from my head and my fleece (its valiantly hydrophobic fibers overtaxed and defeated, succumbing at last to sogginess) and my bike gloves and I could see the planes up there passing by the aforementioned waning crescent moon, on final approach to Reagan National, they were.
My sudden weight gain? Temporary. Just "water weight." So, no worries. I changed pants, then ate an entire pan of brownies, right out of the pan, which was shaped more like the mixing bowl, actually, because I kinda skipped the part on the box that sez "Bake 40 minutes in preheated oven at 350 degrees."
I don't have / that kind o time. Besides, I Just Lost: 20 pounds! Celebrate! Fudgy Chocolate Kegger! (Slathered and dunked to a heavy drooling drip with a ... refined butter frosting, accented with a hint of almond extract, garnished with lively fresh spearmint sprigs, and locally grown strawberries sliced with a microtome.)
(Your pilgrim, will always, Tell Y'all: The Truth. Except: when making shit up is way more funnies.)
But back to your pilgrim's arrival, via bicycle, in the rain, which came in torrent(s), at home here at Rock Creek & P.
My Converse Chucks (same slutty water-lovin cotton canvas, with sole cushions made outta SpongeBob SquareTrousers' dead, probably synthetic, relatives that, hey! they probably never were in the actual Ocean, let alone On The Show ... "No porifera were harmed in the making of this popular retro footwear that lotsa olds probably wore in the 60s, when they were younger than you, mofos.")
[hold on. too long an interpolation there to properly lead in to the next bit. pick up again at:]
My Converse Chucks were
You know what? You know what else? Everything inside me Timbuk2 messenger bag (my most constant companion) was all like, cozy comfy dry.
The End.
My sudden weight gain? Temporary. Just "water weight." So, no worries. I changed pants, then ate an entire pan of brownies, right out of the pan, which was shaped more like the mixing bowl, actually, because I kinda skipped the part on the box that sez "Bake 40 minutes in preheated oven at 350 degrees."
I don't have / that kind o time. Besides, I Just Lost: 20 pounds! Celebrate! Fudgy Chocolate Kegger! (Slathered and dunked to a heavy drooling drip with a ... refined butter frosting, accented with a hint of almond extract, garnished with lively fresh spearmint sprigs, and locally grown strawberries sliced with a microtome.)
(Your pilgrim, will always, Tell Y'all: The Truth. Except: when making shit up is way more funnies.)
But back to your pilgrim's arrival, via bicycle, in the rain, which came in torrent(s), at home here at Rock Creek & P.
My Converse Chucks (same slutty water-lovin cotton canvas, with sole cushions made outta SpongeBob SquareTrousers' dead, probably synthetic, relatives that, hey! they probably never were in the actual Ocean, let alone On The Show ... "No porifera were harmed in the making of this popular retro footwear that lotsa olds probably wore in the 60s, when they were younger than you, mofos.")
[hold on. too long an interpolation there to properly lead in to the next bit. pick up again at:]
My Converse Chucks were
Squishing to the rhythm that my footsteps made ... [and, um]You know what else? My sodden underwear is now dyed with a light indigo wash, even lighter than the kind of jeans Old Guys Buy.
People passing by they would stop and say
Oh my that little country boy could play
Go go
Go Johnny go . . .
You know what? You know what else? Everything inside me Timbuk2 messenger bag (my most constant companion) was all like, cozy comfy dry.
The End.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
"Txts from Hilz" does #bindersfullofwomen
It's "Texts From Hillary," The Next Generation. Thank.The.Gods.
These are good, y’all. My fave:
The Linky? Clicky. textsfromhillary.com
Discovered via Andrew Sullivan today.
These are good, y’all. My fave:
[The Hilz:] Where’s my binder?
[The Prez:] You’re flying in it.
The Linky? Clicky. textsfromhillary.com
Discovered via Andrew Sullivan today.
Happy-happy, joy-joy, gay-day
Ding, dong, the DOMA might soon be dead. Second Circuit totally smacked its unconstitutional shit right down. Read it and weep your tears of gratitude, ye children of the light. The best read is Jezebel's Erin Gloria Ryan, of course.
Today, a Federal Appeals Court in New York ruled that the Defense of Marriage Act — which defines marriage on the federal level as the union between one man and one woman — is unconstitutional on the grounds that DUH, LEGALLY ENSHRINED DISCRIMINATION AGAINST GAY PEOPLE IS NOT OKAY. I'm paraphrasing here.Ms Ryan has more, so clicky the linky, y'all.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Stupid things guys say when "Talkin' Sports"
So, bro, what's on your mind this fine sabbath morn, while waiting for your Starbucks coffee?
(Your pilgrim never says 'bro,' but he hears teh guyz use it like all the time.)
Uh oh, sounds like the 'bro' is like, down two, 30 seconds on the clock and, Oh Noes! the ball's at THE OTHER TEAM'S TEN: TOO FAR to go for a field goal, and Win The Game.
This analogy, of course, is stupid sports stuff even your pilgrim knows, because easy. Also, teh guys always use sportz stuff to explain everthing. Otherwise, their 'buds' would not understand.
And yes, even your pilgrim knows there are plays that could be called. Like the 'Hail Mary.'
Here's how it works: At the snap, the QB kneels, Tebow-like, prays to the Blessed Virgin, who actually doesn't care for football, then rises to throw the ball to the essential asshole (his spelling of "team" uses the letter 'I') known as the wide receiver.
The QB's prayer is, "Yo, Mary, Mother of God: Please guide my pass to the receiver, turn the ball into Velcro loops and the receiver's hands into Velcro hooks. Amen. p.s. Been in a dry spell lately. Would really like to get laid tonite. I mean, you're like a chick and all, but you got powers, and stuff, right?")
(Your pilgrim never says 'bro,' but he hears teh guyz use it like all the time.)
"My [New Orleans] Saints [that's a football team] are horrible this year. I don't know what to do about it."
Uh oh, sounds like the 'bro' is like, down two, 30 seconds on the clock and, Oh Noes! the ball's at THE OTHER TEAM'S TEN: TOO FAR to go for a field goal, and Win The Game.
This analogy, of course, is stupid sports stuff even your pilgrim knows, because easy. Also, teh guys always use sportz stuff to explain everthing. Otherwise, their 'buds' would not understand.
And yes, even your pilgrim knows there are plays that could be called. Like the 'Hail Mary.'
Here's how it works: At the snap, the QB kneels, Tebow-like, prays to the Blessed Virgin, who actually doesn't care for football, then rises to throw the ball to the essential asshole (his spelling of "team" uses the letter 'I') known as the wide receiver.
The QB's prayer is, "Yo, Mary, Mother of God: Please guide my pass to the receiver, turn the ball into Velcro loops and the receiver's hands into Velcro hooks. Amen. p.s. Been in a dry spell lately. Would really like to get laid tonite. I mean, you're like a chick and all, but you got powers, and stuff, right?")
Monday, September 3, 2012
Let us now praise: Jimmy Page
Us old guitarist guys really love this dude. Like Hendrix, like Clapton, he changed the genre.
Here he is, with the Foo Fighters, Live at Wembley Stadium 2008, performing "Ramble On."
Here he is, with the Foo Fighters, Live at Wembley Stadium 2008, performing "Ramble On."
Sunday, August 26, 2012
All kinds o' love, actually
* Friday evening, outside the CVS on Dupont Circle, the woman on her phone says, "OK, thanks for listening. Hope you have fun there."
* 22 & P, one Thursday evening: Two guys, one woman, turn the corner. The woman hugs her friend goodbye, while the other guy stands aside. She goes her way; her friend returns to his guy, holds his hand as they walk into The Fireplace, a famous gay bar here.
* Starbucks, Dupont Circle, Sunday, "Hope I didn't make you come too far," the guy says. "No, I live in Adams Morgan," she says. "Thanks for meeting me," he says. "See you tomorrow."
* Connecticut Avenue, Sunday, outside Kramer's books: Dad, then Mom, hug their son goodbye. They seem grateful and happy to have been together, sad to part, though they aren't showing it yet. Their brief mundane small talk after the hugs confirms this, and their love too.
All this: Love Actually.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Writers, on writing
“This book forced
itself upon me while I was trying to write something else ...”
Northrop Frye
(1912-91), Preface to his “Anatomy of
Criticism,” 1957
Quotes, from places along my way
“The
mysterious thing about any art is that other people understand.”
Elizabeth
Bishop (1911-79), 1974.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Songs I love
This is my favorite tune by Rush: Spirit of Radio, here in a really great live
performance.
All three of these dudes -- Geddy Lee (vocals, bass), Neil Peart (drums), Alex Lifeson (guitar) -- are older than even my two dear grandsons' Most Proud Grandfather (Hey Kevin! Hey Kyle!) if only by a year or two.
Another performance here. Dunno name of chicken-suit-person onstage. I like, however, the working dryers there, turned on and tumbling -- something -- right next to the speaker stacks.
I Love These Guys.
All three of these dudes -- Geddy Lee (vocals, bass), Neil Peart (drums), Alex Lifeson (guitar) -- are older than even my two dear grandsons' Most Proud Grandfather (Hey Kevin! Hey Kyle!) if only by a year or two.
Another performance here. Dunno name of chicken-suit-person onstage. I like, however, the working dryers there, turned on and tumbling -- something -- right next to the speaker stacks.
I Love These Guys.
My Fourth, as it was
1.0 Slept late.Really late. (Very nice.)
2.0 Venturing at last outside, in
my 9th floor hall: The scent of sunscreen lotion, lingering after the wearer
had left.
2.1. My expedition was: Go to store. Buy Yuengling, For drinking. Yay, Yuengling. Historic American
family brewing.
3-point Oh: Then in my elevator
back: babes bearing beers back to their apartment. (Update: It's very true. They had beers, they were going back to their apartment. Also, I like lotsa alliteration.)
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
GoldFinchies
The first goldfinch of the season, sighted today, 12 June 2012.
I saw this one at the thistle-sock feeder on our 9th-floor balcony here at Dupont Circle, Washington DC. There were so many last year. (estimated census from last year: at least 5).
I had not seen ANY, until today. What a relief. I was so WORRIED.
I saw this one at the thistle-sock feeder on our 9th-floor balcony here at Dupont Circle, Washington DC. There were so many last year. (estimated census from last year: at least 5).
I had not seen ANY, until today. What a relief. I was so WORRIED.
Update: 3 July 2012
Last week I noticed that the thistle sock was empty. Aha!
They (in their bright and also mottled yellow hordes) had been here! When I was
away! (They like to have my apt to themselves, it appears.) Refilled the feeder, and found a
second sock in the 20-pound thistle stash we have, set out both.
Then, a day ago, I sighted another individual around 11a, as I
was preparing to head to the office. By this point, I had observed two discrete
individuals. And there are two here this evening. You can hear a slight happy
finchie song announce their setting upon your feast.
About the counting: Last year, I counted four individuals. It takes a lot of
separate observations to get to a reliable individual count, unless all four or
five or whatever, descend upon your station at once, wearing nametags that say “Hi: My name is _____. Count
me.”
For now, the current count is two. I am on the lookout for
confirmation of my suspicion: three.
btw, the arc that goldfinches trace in flight is unmistakable
once you’ve seen it.
Update on the census,
American Goldfinch, at the feeders here:
Saturday, 7 July 2012, saw three, all at once. So census stands
confirmed at three. I suspected four, however. Confirmation came later that
day. Two females appeared. I had seen one at a time previously. So, confirmed at
four now: two females, and two males.
I suspect five, but confirmation now gets much trickier. Here’s
why:
Females and males are easy to distinguish in the summer: males
are bright yellow; females are yellow too, but it’s dulled with green feathers.
In size, there is discernible difference, but markings are not very
individualized.
So if there are five, confirmation can only come from:
seeing three males or three females simultaneously (easy, but requires huge
coincidence, and luck), or distinguishing three individuals of either sex with certainty
borne of sufficiently repeated attentive observation.
Y’all will be the first to know.
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