And not of the things I would like to pass on, either.
I put up a post once upon a time on Jim Cantore, Weather Channel stud. No big. But the guy need to get his own site, because I get a ton of email and comments from people thinking this is Jim's site. Soak in the latest fan note. I can't tell if this guy is Down Syndrome or just a smitten fag. Good God. Enjoy, though:
I would like to say that I have a fear of storms, and latley, it has been
going away, since one last storm, the one that hit texas sometime in April.
I was home with my sister, and her friend, both my age. and My grandma was
baby sitting us. Well, I was watching the Weather Channel, and tornado
warnings popped up and the sirens went off. My Grandma, cant walk well, so
it took about 5 minuites to get her into the closet, and my dad works in a
tiny shop, very very unsturdy. This day was most likly the one storm that
knocked my fear half off. I remember the sirens roaring, hail pouring, my
only thought was, I am going to die. right here, and now. But I was
watching the storm on a portalble TV, and Started marking paths. I really
wanna be a metorologist when I grow up, but I am scared a Storm will hit
somewhere and I will flip out. I hope my full fear goes away soon. I know I
have plenty of time to get over it, but I really wanna be a Metorologist. I
watch The Weather Channel SO much, that my parents bought me movies, not
weather related, so I would stop worrying. But This was in April. I am over
my fear now, And for someone my age, I know alot about Weather patterns,
and metorology, and my science grades are Phenomanal. I can look at a
cloud, and instanly see if its a wall cloud, then I kinda concentrate on
weather which way its moving, then go inside and look on the radar to see
if i was correct, sometimes, most of the time, I am correct. My Mom also
loves weather, and she takes it Very seriously, like everyone should. I am
a weather channel FREAK, and I love it. One of my favorite movies is
twister, and I cant get enought of it. Please email me back, at
BandnerdXXX@hotmail.com i would really appriciate it and would enjoy some
tips on Metorology. Please, and that you very very much. I would appriciate
it escpecailly with my birhday coming up. Please, And Thanks!!!
Your Biggest Fan,AXXX RXXXXX (redacted out of pity)
Eh? I said, eh? Cantore so owes me liquor. I take the hits for him.
The Senator awakened once, when I was a high schooler, with a brilliant shiny knot upon his forehead. Centered between the eyes, but higher. Right in the classic cyclops region. Now, no one was expecting a spontaneous third eye to manifest itself, of course, but he found it troubling, and therefore we kids found it troubling. My mother found it troubling.
As days passed it grew, and seemed to harden, and change texture and color. In fact, it appeared to grow a kind of wandering lidless white eye that looked sometimes this way , other times thataway.
The Senator was afeared of only one thing, and that was Cancer. He'd watched his mother succumb to it, and the horror of it, and it terrified him. And he was convinced this was some kind of brain tumor, or melanoma writ ominous.
He had my mother concerned, too, of course, as the thing was now bomber-marble sized, and she finally made an appointment with the doctor, and forced him to go (he being a scaredy-cat like me, who would rather perish in ignorant bliss than stare down a possibly terminal diagnosis, and deal with it in the hopes of recovery).
And So: the Senator went to the doctor, who examined the opprobrious cyst/wen/carbunkle/tumor with great care and much harumphing, before asking the Senator to lie back on the examining table. He asked him to close his eyes and relax, he was going to operate.
We kids learned this part of the story later, of course, but we knew the old man had gone to see the Learned Physician for Bad News, and we were anxious, dreadful, and snotty-nosed.
Well, I was. My older siblings had passed beyond snot-nosage. I was snot-nosed until I was a junior in college, for some reason.
Anyway, the doctor weant to work hammer and tongs, so to speak, wielding scalpel and clotcloth with urgency, precision, and, may I add, not even a whiff of anesthesia. Ole Doc was taking it to the beast mano-a-mano, right then and there.
He finished in a surprisingly short amount of time, and asked my father to sit up.
"I put a suture in there, it should come out in a few days," said he.
"And then what?"
"Well, next time you get a goddam zit that huge, pop it before it gets too bad," doc replied.
Oh, the relief! How the angels danced on pinheads! And how the pinheads, scratching themselves, were oblivious to it!
Anyhow, much ado about nothing, after all. Ain't that a pisser.
Here's a picture of my Uncle Bob, walking down Peachtree Street in Atlanta with my grandmother. Circa 1940. Bob would have been about 17.
Looks like an Italian stud, eh? That must be a 26 inch waist. And coming out of the Depression he didn't seem to be hurting for clothes.
Malcolm Robin, Jr. was the Senator's big brother and idol. As I've posted before, Bob was killed in 1944 when his bomber crashed on a training mission in Colorado. The old man was never the same, I'm told. Once in an infrequent while he'd get a bit hammered, though, and
blubber reminesce about Bob.
Life's full of What If's, though, isn't it?
I'd have liked to have known Bob. He was said to be a great guy.
I don't do holiday posts much, but as we approach Memorial Day, this is a man I'd like to remember.
And, gee. No family resemblance there, eh what?
Okay, I confess. In a fit of sheer ennui I've dabbled in the local online dating scene. Jesus Christ! No wonder they call this town Freakville. Here's a hint, ladies: if you have to pick a picure to post, don't use the one where you look like you were just Tasered. Although the open mouth is intriguing, I prefer my dates conscious when I do that. Usually.
And the questions! They all click the same buttons:
Smoke? No Way!
Drink? Moderate, maybe one or two.
Well, not if you're on a date with me. I want to ply so much tequila in you, you vomit on my shoes. Now we're cool.
They don't address the important questions, either.
May I defecate on you? Yes/Yes
Because I don't care how much you like those long walks on the beach, when we get back to the condo I want to know if I can lay a skinny on you. Hey! You threw up on my shoes, didn't you? Tit for tat, baby.
Just kidding, of course. Although as I was floating in the pool today, soaking some much needed Florida sunshine into my porage, sucking on a 12 foot hose of quarter inch snaked into a bottle of Crown Royal (Yes/No!) I thought: I should start my own online dating service. To cater to the freaks, pervs, crimps, spungs, and feebs out there. In other words, the 95% of the populace that doesn't fit the eHarmony demongraphic of tight-assed losers.
I'll have to think about this. I think it is a post unto itself. But think about this as a critical Yes/No: Cigarette-burn tattoos? Personally, I'm fer 'em.
Since I figure a night of pig theme keeps the Muzzies away:
Pearls before swine is one of those expressions that one uses, and probably doesn't understand. At least I don't. I figured it was a metaphor for giving a marginal significant other a necklace, for instance:
"Here's the pearls, swine. See how I proffer them before you. Now, bye."
But that's not the case, is it? It's Biblical, of course. New Testament, one of them Gospels I think. So I Googied it. Regardez! It seems the scholars are unsure as well.
The general consensus is, of course, don't put your valuable stuff before them what don't appreciate it, or would trample upon it. It's a piece of what is known as the Discourse On Holiness, from the Sermon on the Mount, wherein a series of sayings is followed by an explanation.
They have that in hip hop too, but I forget what it's called. Callbacks? My niggaz is weak, I must lament.
But back to Pearlz Afore Swinze: the scholars are divided as to whether it means do not put the holy before the unholy because it is not wholesome and Godly in and of itself, or the more literal concept of don't put something before someone who doesn't appreciate it for what it's worth. A far less eschatological interpretation, I daresay, and one I'm more comfortable with. I always go with the more stoopid, eh?
So: to the chase. I figure I'm pearl. That makes somebody swine. I really hate coming to this conclusion. Unfortunately, the Bible says it's so. Bummer that.
Anyway, ya'll hash it out. I'm sure there's a few fellow pearls out there.
Delta, Alabama (AP)
Little Miss Early Mouth, reknowned porcine star of feverish dreams and likely paramour of famed Georgia legislator The Senator, was brutally slain by an 11-year-old in Delta, Alabama, in what Anniston County District Attorney Clevis Barrow called "a despicable, wanton act of murder." The boy, Jamison Stone, apparently accosted Ms. Early Mouth in an isolated fen on a local hunting preserve, and savagely murdered her with a Saturday Night Special he'd stolen for the purpose.
"It feels really good," Stone is purported to have said when confronted with the murder. "It's a good accomplishment. I probably won't ever kill anything else that big," he bragged after posing for a photograph with his victim, taken by an unknown accomplice.
District Attorney Barrow said the boy would be held for psychological evaluation at the Anniston Regional Juvenile Detention Center pending filing of appropriate charges.
Early Mouth, 57, was a familiar personality in the southeastern United States, having held a recurring role in the fever swamps of The Senator's nightmares, and having been photographed on at least three occasions cavorting naked during the seasonal rut with south Georgia Lothario Hogzilla, antics purported to have inspired the later slatternly behavior of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan. Hogzilla was found shotgunned and buried in a shallow grave outside of Alapaha, Georgia, in 2004. A local idiot savant, Chris Griffin, was questioned in the murder but later exonerated of all charges after a National Geographic forensic team questioned the remains as that of Hogzilla.
"Hogzilla was 1,000 pounds of well-hung boarhog," explained forensic team leader Ellroy Futch. "The cadaver we exhumed was a mere 800 pounds, and was, shall we say, somewhat less endowed than the Hogzilla we came to know and love in such underground 8mm pornographic films as Hog Wild! and Meat the Parents." Controversy still surrounds the death, however, as rumor persists that several loins and some hocks had been removed from Hogzilla's carcass for the annual Big Pig Jig in nearby Vienna, Georgia, thus reducing the cadaver's overall weight.
Early Mouth first came to national attention when a twelve-year-old, who would only identify himself as Velociboy Jones, claimed he had witnessed an involuntary nocturnal emission by The Senator in 1969 during a Time Tunnel episode, with Miss Early Mouth being named as the object of desire. She later surfaced in such bootleg cartrunk classics as Porkin' and Hot Greasy Loins.
In lieu of flowers donations can be made to Sweatt's Abattoir, Blitchton, Georgia.
Ms. Hilton could not be reached for comment.
From Grouchy Old Cripple. Because if I'm not going to sleep tonight, neither are you.
I don't understand the rage, the incredible grassroots frothing at the mouth over this impending immigration "reform" bill. Firstly, no one has read it. Secondly, once they do they won't understand it. Thirdly, of course, it's just going to legitimize 12 million illegal aliens, with the merest of bitchslaps at border enforcement.
But isn't that what we've endured for decades? What's changed? They're already here. Been here. Framed your house. The fact these scofflaws will get a Z Visa? Maybe that will actually put them into the maw of the fucking system. So maybe we can extract a dime of tax per dollar of welfare we spend. They're already draining medical, educational, law enforcement, and social services. No one did anything then, and they won't do it now.
As far as I'm concerned it's just the status quo ante, with the same criminal politicians pulling the same smoke and mirrors. (Did anyone honestly think they could count on Washington to fix what they broke in 1965?) Only now maybe you can refuse to hire someone without a holographic ID card. The Mark of Zee Beest, hombre!
And on a personal note, I've never known any of these people bitching about wetbacks to ever club a few, load them in the back of the Silverado, and return them to the land of Feliz Navidad. I know I haven't. Why I don't bitch too much. Except when they piss on my car tires at the Hess Mart. Putas!
So, you know, we've all turned the blind eye, and if you're not part of the solution, amigos, you're part of the underground economy.
UPDATE: Belated welcome to Protein Wisdom readers. I apologize. I've been "over the wall".
I'm curious about this "Browning of America" phenomenon, though. Apparently I misunderstood the meaning, and I've been burrowing in the wrong tunnel, so to speak. To the lady: muchos gracias!
Sweet. Even I could get a reacharound with one of them rides.
I'm getting pretty perturbed with the ubiquitousness of one Rachael Ray. It's sick stuff. I can't buy cereal, or rice, or anything without her grinning face.
Maybe it's just a Nabisco thing. They control the aisles don't they, the fascists. I have an entire rant prepared about Point of Fucking Purchase, you know.
Back to Rachael. How does that bubblebutted girl, who must smoke so many nail coffins a day she sounds like Tallulah Bankhead, get these gigs?
Here is the answer: Madison Avenue is full of gay folk, who think a trollop like Rachael appeals to us breeders.
All I can figure.
Having said that, I'd still pop that fat ass. I just don't want to see her face on my Minute Rice afterwards. Okay?
Boy, I hate those presumptuous cocksuckers who set up "open threads". Meaning, "I'm too busy being a blogstar to post actual content, but since you're here anyway, sniffing my duct glands, and masturbating over my previous posts, please leave me some love".
I'm not sure what Dickens would have to say about this sort of thing, but I'm pretty sure he would be shovelling transfats into his maw as he contemplated it.
Which leads me to my point: I don't have anything to say tonight, other than I think we're about to have 12 million new landscapers, so how about an Open Thread?!?!
Feel free to call me the scumbag I probably am. This is, after all, only a test.
I just love Raymond Loewy. The greatest industrial designer of the 20th century. Harley Earle sucks his nutsack in comparison. An immigrant who redefined form over function, and then convinced you function was form. I'm not going to spill much ink giving him paeans, I'll just let you enjoy his work.
Firstly, the 1939 S1 locomotive he designed for the Pennsylvania Railroad:
How sweet is that? Remember, this was the new diesel engine. Before Loewy, locomotives looked like this:
Ginormous improvement, iffen you like sleek. And I do.
How about this?
I think Loewy liked logos just as much as more intensive, industrial design. He really put his best into 'em.
I give you the 1963 Studebaker Avanti, though:
Just a smattering of Loewy. I can't put his entire works out here. But: he designed the interiors of the Concorde, and Skylab. Just a ton of shit. A prolific fellow. My only bitch? His 1971 reformation of the Royal Dutch Shell logo. From this:
That don't work for me! Foul ball! Too much '70's bullshit in that. I think Raymond was old, and finally susceptible to what passed for 'stylized' in the late '60's, early '70's. Bu that Shell Oil redo was what attracted me to him in the first place, having watched a late '70's Sixty Minutes on him.
Anyway, Google the man. Loll in his designs like a whore in a bubble bath. Or whatever your particular fantasy is. It doesn't have to match mine.
And appreciate, if you decide, the genius of Raymond Loewy.
I give you my Raymond Loewy retrospective. Been meaning to do it for 4 years. In the meantime, isn't the 1954 Greyhound Scenicruiser just a marvel of intelligent design and sleek cool?
I think so.
I think. Maybe.
As I walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom this morning, Bella was already in her crate, awaiting her daily imprisonment. This was unusual, as I often have to rassle her into the thing. I gave her a Good Girl, locked her up, then noticed, in the bedroom corner, that fucking turtle.
She'd used her morning romp (unsupervised, I may add) to scour the backyards until she found that accussed turtle yet again. And brought it home and tried to hide it in the corner. Her supposed good behavior getting into the crate unprompted was merely a diversion, a bait and switch, to take my eye off the ball. She knew she didn't have time to play with that turtle immediately, but she knew if she secreted it nearby she could have her way with her play pretty when she was released in the afternoon.
As best I can reconstruct it:
1. She brought the turtle home in the first place. In her jowls. I knew it couldn't climb that sliding door threshold alone.
2. She put it in the Rubbermaid bin. I'd left my dog bowls at my brother's last week, and had been feeding her from the Rubbermaid. She must have taken one into the bedroom, and deposited her buddy in it so it couldn't escape. She is notorious for carrying around food and water bowls anyway.
3. As to being under the bed, I'm not sure if Bella intentionally nosed the thing under there, or if she did it inadvertently. But she was pissed when she couldn't get at it last night.
4. So I have a dog capable of playing with a turtle until she remembers to devour it; a beast capable of enough forethought and dishonesty to hide this from me; a sorry case of false imprisonment and aggravated gnawing & bloodletting upon a hapless shelled victim; a piece of Rubbermaid I'll never put food in again; and a yard turtle whose brain bud is so small its sense of self-preservation is infinitesimal.
I knew there was a logical explanation that didn't involve UFO's, Bloggers Gone Wild, or Lyndon LaRouche. Whew! Of course, I still have to deal with a Very Bad Girl. But, hell, I live for that, you know? I just want to deal with a Very Bad Girl in human form.
of the Republican debate. Because I only watched about 15 minutes, having to fight the dog for the Delmonico bone out on the lanai:
John McCain: Powerful man, compelling message. Totally unelectable. It's the Cuckoo Factor, stupid!
Rudy Guiliani: Very slicked back. As sleek as the baton that went up Abner Louima's anus. I like him.
Mitt Romney: He's the guy Central Casting calls up to play a telegenic, graying at the temples, completely vapid doofus President controlled by evil minions. And he made a couple of hundred million how? Hard work? Disconnect! Still think he has 8 wives. Mormon cocksucker.
Tommy Thompson: That motherfucker has some big ears. Until he spoke I thought he was a cigar store Indian. Actually, now that I think about it, it was after he spoke.
Mike Huckleberry: He stole Thompson's ears!
Sam Brokeback: He seemed pretty straight up for, you know, one of those people.
Jim Gilmore looked sexier when he was a Gilmore Girl.
Too bad Tancredo didn't show up. Oh. That was him?
Who the fuck was the old guy?
My choice, based upon absolutely nothing? Wendell Goler for President! Hey, he's a black guy, I think. Looks like a red liquor drinker, possible glue huffer. I like that in a man, and rest my case.
P.S. I've been a bit cruel, of course. No wonder they seemed stooped and tired, what with Fred Thompson's enormous invisible ballsack on their shoulders.
I got home today, and as I was changing my clothes the dog kept barking in the bedroom. Out the window, I supposed, therefore I cursed her heartily several times, as the sliding door was open, and she could have investigated any untoward happenings in the backyard without all that fuss.
When I exited the closet, however, she was barking at something under the bed. Great, thinks I, a damned snake. Possibly a possum, but I don't know how that could have happened. I gingerly lifted the dust ruffle (fuck you very much, don't even go there) and saw the above. A farging sizeable box turtle, trapped in a piece of my Rubbermaid. Under my bed. Trying to escape.
Oh ho, thinks me. What the devil is this bullshit? It's a hell of a thing, finding a terrapinesque creature under your bed, especially one trapped in a container it can't escape. So let's recap:
1. I live alone.
2. My daughter is dropped off here every day by the bus, but not today, and she was totally flummoxed when I called her.
3. It couldn't escape from the Rubbermaid, so it's highly unlikely it escaped into the Rubbermaid. The walls are too high.
4. I keep my house locked. In fact, it's on a lockbox, and it hasn't been shown for a week.
5. If this thing had been under my bed for any length of time it would be dead, rotting, and smelly, so this is a recent home invasion.
6. Why under the bed?
7. What the fuck, exactly, is going on?
8. Must a blogger die, even for a practical joke?
No, this is a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, stuffed inside an enigma enchilada. Or whatever. It's a conundrum, a poser, a skull scratcher.
Damned if I can figure it out. Someone broke into my house, left my guns and valuables, and left a turtle under my bed in a food storage bin.
It's a crazy world. That's for sure.
EPILOGUE: I released the reptile in my next door neighbor's yard. Because of my curiosity besoaked dog. I later heard her barking in the den, so I investigated, and found her trying to crack open the turtle. Fortunately, its shell was too big for her to get a decent purchase with her jaws, but she'd bloodied it up a bit. I re-released it, and hope to see it nevermore. (Cried the raven, Nevermore!)
UPDATE: I found this in the corner of the bedroom:
It appears to be turtle excrement. And, NO, I didn't sniff it for verification. My experience has taught me that one animal's asshole smells pretty much like the rest of them. I'm only following bona fide leads here, folks. I did burn it in the backyard, though, to test the age, the freshified quality, the tinderbox level. It didn't burn well at all, suggesting a recent evacuation. It did have a peaty smell to it, however. Think about that at your next Scotch tasting, gentlemen.
The game is afoot!
It's a hell of a thing, shooting one of God's creatures. Which makes it puzzling why it's so damned satisfying. I drove up to visit Catfish today, for a little target practice and fishing. Of course I had Bella Loco with me, so as soon as Cat and I walked down to the pond and target area she proceeded to go a thrashin' and a snortin' in the pond. In salt water she would be called Chum.
We walked to the end of the pond to look for the 7-foot gator Cat shot earlier in the week. Didn't find it, but I found a mongrelly 5-footer lounging around. Since the dog was playing gatorbait, there was nothing for it but to shoot the varmint. Cat gave me his Ruger 9mm, and I shot him three times in his head, which seemed to calm him considerably. I thought he was dead, in fact, but we walked back over about 15 minutes later and he'd moved a little bit, so Cat fetched his .357, and I spoke to him three more times, and not nice like last time. This time in his back, because his head was hiding in the grass, he obviously confused from our prior conversation, and thinking hisself an ostrich.
That sank him. Unfortunately, I couldn't stay over, since the doggie is so retarded, so I'll have to go back tomorrow and see if he floats.
I think these mid-sized gators bore Cat after the 12-footer he shot. Just between us girls, that boy has a gator problem.
Anyway for some reason I'm reminded of this old joke:
A man moves to the Appalachian Mountains to get away from it all. He really likes it, but hasn't had a visitor the entire three months he's been there. Finally a hillbilly neighbor comes over and invites him to a party that Saturday night.
"Now I gotta warn ya," the man says. "There's gonna be some drinkin'."
"That's okay," the guy says. "I can hold my liquor."
"And there's gonna be some dancin'," the hillbilly adds.
"That's okay," the guy says. "I can cut the rug pretty good."
"There's gonna be some fightin', too," the hillbilly warns.
"That's okay," says the guy. "I don't believe in fighting, but I can hold my own."
"And there's gonna be some fuckin'," says the hillbilly.
"Well, I seldom have a problem with that," the guy says cheerfully.
"Okay," says the hillbilly. "See you Saturday."
"Wait a minute," says the guy. "What should I wear?"
"It don't matter," says the hillbilly. "Just gonna be the two of us."
In response to my post of several years ago, which generated about 100 comments, in which I stipulated that black panthers do exist in North America, an alert reader sent me this:
Once upon a time, when I was still viable (call it the late 70's) I went to the drive-in with my oldest sister and two brothers. The Montgomery Drive-In. There to watch Grizzly, as I recall.
We ranged in age I suppose from 18 to 26. Just happened to all be in town at the same time, had had enough of the parents, and needed some smoke time.
So there we were, stoned, watching an enormous ursine creature slap the fucking arm off a chick. Not that we cared. It was merely escape entertainment.
At some point my sister and I caught the munchies, and went into the drive-in commissary for delectables. Poccern slathered in lard, Raisenets, Dots. The usual. I was paying, so my sister left her purse in the front seat. My brothers were in the back seat (playing grabass, no doubt). As it was a sweltering summer night the windows were down, and so these marauding colored kids reached in and grabbed the purse. It was a sweet, textbook snatch. No problem there. Had it coming, we did. Damned near dared the poor lads to take it. It couldn't be holped.
Our buzz was killed, though, and we went home muttering about what we wudda shudda done to them darkies. The fucking nerve, we said.
I forgot about it in an hour or two, it not being my credit cards, cash, and driver's license. The Senator, however, did not.
He got his dander up. The next morning he took his Ruger Blackhawk .357 magnum and his 1972 Lincoln Continental Mark IV and went a hunting for scofflaw Negroes. Here the car:
Except it was ice white, with a baby blue landau top.
Sweet, eh? Anyhows, the Senator proceeded to cruise the black neighborhood behind the Drive-in, stopping, getting out, interrogating the locals, trying to figure out 'Where that purse?' 'Who saw it?' 'Who are those boys?'
Jesus. That crowd had circled the wagons. They weren't sharing shit with the Senator, I don't care how often he slammed the Ruger on the roof of the Lincoln.
What the hell was he thinking?
I guess he was old school. Thought those nigras would drop a dime on a homey for a get out of jail free card. I don't know. I DO know this:
No way in hell would I have worked that neighborhood. That was rough shit. I'm not even sure, to this day, the Senator understood what kind of Injun Territory he was in.
He didn't find that purse, but he was probably whistling a country and western tune when he drove away. Big shit eating grin on his face.
I don't have too many heroes. This fact would be a function of my overweening ego, and pride. I tend to worship myself. Especially in the shower, when I can properly adore my gravity-challenged, yet compelling form.
But I do worship James Lileks. His mastery of wordage leaves me feeling like a little naked imp. With Girth Vader attached, of course, but still a little naked imp.
Therefore I was stunned, boltgun stunned, to find his column has been cancelled by the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, so that he might scribe local news stories.
Fucking Ada, Intrepids. Thats like asking Orson Welles to film the Vincent Price Sears Artworks ouvre.
Taint done, anyway.
Lileks is a national treasure. Unlike that bloated Lake Pleasebegone asshole who has suckled unto himself a national treasure of his oneself limned with gold paving stones of tax dollars.
I remonstrate. Most demonstratively. And, better, James has provided the contacts for the Star-Trib's ombudsman. Or, to be less sexist, their Readers' Rep. Kate Parry. Email her early and often.
Lileks, of course, will find gainful employment elsewhere. Not the issue. He's too damned good to find hisself adrift. But he'd been on board with these idyuts since, like, 1980, or 1979. And loved his work, his city, his place. Just fucking shameful stuff.
Please send Kate a missive. Pimp my man. James Lileks doesn't need my help, but he is a brilliant writer, and I feel he's being abused for his gimlet eye, his take on the world as we know it. I expect this kind of shit in Havana. Not here.
My main man Paul from Light and Dark has successfully upgraded my antediluvian platform to Movable Type 3.35. He always takes care of me. Although I'm sure he wonders why someone who never posts anymore gets his knickers in a wad over trackback spam. It's a territorial thing, Paul. You'll see the same thing around the fire hydrants on my street. I own the damned things. Got the dog bites to prove it.
Anyhoo, should I decide to post, I know I'll be posting within a muscular antispam environment.
Now I just need someone to come suck out my writers block. Left ear works for me as a rule.