It’s been a year since my first day at this job, although it doesn’t say so under Today in History. This is the longest I’ve ever held any job, even if it has mostly been for two days a week.
Guess I should talk to somebody about a raise.
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After two years, Sean is about to come back to the US from his time teaching music as a Jesuit volunteer in a Nicaraguan village. I’ve been reading his journal continuously for about three years now; he’s a funny and intimate writer, and I’ve tried to incorporate some of his observational style into my own voice.
I’ve known one (other) Jesuit volunteer teacher in real life, and I feel like I know Sean, in a way. Neither has exactly been entirely gung-ho about the program, but if my own personal sample is any indication, it attracts some pretty incredible people. I wonder if I could do what they did, and if I would. Or will.
I know it’s old news but I don’t care
I’m going to buy this album. In fact, I’m not going to stop at just buying it. I’m going to burn extra copies of it, and I’m going to give you one, hell, maybe two or three. I’m going to come over to your house, and we’re going to listen to it. Together. To every. Last. Word.
A trombonist in a brass-punk band called the Golden Showers
“One day I won’t put up with you. It’ll just be over. Where will you sleep?”
“You’ll always have to put up with me. I’ll be throwing things at you in the old folk’s home, knocking big wads of oily tinfoil right off your head. If you haven’t merged with the network by then in dork ecstasy.”
In my increasingly desperate search for materiél to scan between bouts of whanging my head against cryptic SQL procedures, I have finally committed myself to reading that old sawhorse of Sumana’s: Ftrain, residence of Paul Ford’s multiple personas and weird-category-structure Mecca. I mean, I’ve read it before, but as of today I’m reading larger chunks and really trying to grok its navigation. And it’s good. “Scott Rahin’s” columns are a quick favorite; they remind me of the amiable hate-fest that is a fact of life between certain members of the Nightlight Press Community and myself.
Been using that ol’ blockquote a lot here lately.
Now the stupid thing will be in my head all day
For the longest time, I was convinced that that Stevie Nicks song was about a “one-winged dove,” which always seemed perversely funny to me.
“Funnier than a one-legged rabbit, Val,” said Peter.
“Of which there are no doubt several in these woods.”
“Hopping in neat little circles.”
Will White (now a temporary Sunday Night Baller!) remains a genius.
It’s not online, unfortunately, but trust me when I say that the front page of USA Today has the sub-head
U.S. Olympic hopefuls face drug accusations
Battle looms to compete
which, I… I don’t know, might just be the best ambiguous headline ever.
Geraldine kicked her ride into gear and rumbled out of the gate, into the Istodrome and its ambient thunder. The others were already circling the floor: Dallas Gator and his two-treadle rig, Jingo Smith on her lean ShuttleMatic, and Sam Scarwood’s weird upside-down contraption. Geraldine shook her head. Unless he got with the times and added a double back-beam, he wasn’t going anywhere.
The announcer’s boom brought her back to the arena. “Your final contestant… the Tartan Trampler… Geraldiiiiine O’Maaallleeey!“
Geraldine grinned, checked her trigger action, and shot off a salutatory flare from her Battle Loom’s smokestack. The crowd went wild.