1. I’ve stolen this descriptor from Defective Yeti, because it applies so aptly to certain brothers-in-law of mine. Let us try out for size one “Dave,” who “has a head of hair that looks as though it has not so much as exchanged a postcard with a comb in the last five years.”
2. It’s the recession; time to cut back on the mistresses! (as I was reading that article, I noticed a Google Ad: “Women doing dog: Great bargains! Save on women doing dog.” You clever internet bestiality, you! I was looking for some girl on dog porn, and you nearly convinced me to shop wisely).
3. Talking of ads, last night on the turnpike, we drove by a giant billboard for Bud Light. “The Difference is Drinkability.” Is this what Recession Marketing looks like? “We realize you’re only drinking this swill because you’re poor and/or trash, but hey, at least it’s drinkable. Go out and getcha some!”
First, a rousing cheer for the ancient geezer to whom I am married. I’ve been lucky enough to share 4 of his first 30 years, and by the time he’s 60, I will have been around for the majority of his life. Can’t wait.
Next, I’m pleased to announce that yesterday was the long-awaited birth of the Peanut, who is the cutest little PuertoKorecuan legume I’ve ever seen.
I stole this from a friend’s Facebook profile. It seems to be some sort of English Naval recruiter’s version of an Uncle Sam poster. I prefer not to join.
The phrase is falsely attributed to Winston Churchill (”Don’t talk to me about naval tradition. It’s nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash.“) and is also the name of a best-selling album by The Pogues.
The album cover painting is based on “The Raft of the Medusa” by Theodore Gericault, which in turn may have been inspired by
John Singleton Copley’s “Watson and the Shark.” Brook Watson was a 14-year-old crew member of a trading ship whose leg
was eaten by a shark. Copley met him in London (where Watson later became mayor) and the painting was subsequently commissioned. Upon Watson’s death, a copy was given to a hospital to warn kids of the dangers of swimming in shark-infested waters. I suspect the intended lesson of this public service poster may have been too late for anyone sitting in the ER with a missing leg.
The figure of the unfortunate Watson (did the shark eat his clothes, too?) was based on “The Borghese Gladiator” by Agasius of Ephesus. The gladiator’s form is also echoed in Rubens’ “Conclusion of the Peace at Angers.”
It’s sales conference week at work, so today and tomorrow are spent listening to editors present their spring 09 titles. Great fun and deathly boring, depending on who’s presenting. Nice to have free food and get out of the office, dreadful because nothing gets done and the guy in charge purposefully keeps the temp at about 45 degrees “so we won’t fall asleep.” Perhaps he is not aware of the sleep-like quality of death, once one is frozen into that state.
Meanwhile, back at home, the landlords keep it so hot the only way to sleep is spread-eagle naked with an ice cube on your tongue.
1. ”Oh, hi! I’m a Christian with 30 million dollars. Let’s see… AIDS, poverty, missions, starvation, illiteracy….Nope, I think I’ll keep gay people from marrying!”
2. I am not really a political person, but I seem to be unable to stop ranting about these goings on. My sister and I have moved on from our “here come the Obamalypse” Facebook friends, abstinence-based sex-ed, and purity rings to scheming how to get fresh veg NOT drowned in cream-of-what-have-you sauces at Grandma’s Thanksgiving.
It was quite an effort to get Grandma’s permission to bring anything, but I am allowed one pumpkin pie. J3 will offer “breakfast pastries.” I will also be packing a keg of cran-grape for P, who is a fruit juice vampire. Grandma makes wonderful things to eat and plenty of them, but they are of a mayonnaise-, bacon fat- and margarine-based nature, which gave us pause once we reached an accountable age. We’ll just have to break up the inevitable family drama with jogging and soccer.
On the non-self-absorbed front, we’re thankful she’s still around and willing to host, as family events are much pleasanter there. Our poor family camps together in the rec room, while we married couples get the two bedrooms. We’re going to turn one of them into a speakeasy with a password to get in.
Some could do tricks. 
was eaten by a shark. Copley met him in London (where Watson later became mayor) and the painting was subsequently commissioned. Upon Watson’s death, a copy was given to a hospital to warn kids of the dangers of swimming in shark-infested waters. I suspect the intended lesson of this public service poster may have been too late for anyone sitting in the ER with a missing leg.
