The Bob Corrigan
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how i became a proficient speaker of the lao language
from now on: i am only going to learn new languages by mysetf if (and only if) i can get...
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The Manly Tradition of the Pocket Notebook via The Art of Manliness (submitted by mnmal)
The idea of carrying around a pocket notebook has...
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LACO x WUS Baumuster B LE via Biggie_Robs
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Yup, this is pretty much what I imagine Australia is really like.
I think my Australian...
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TINY BABY PUG! Some #morningcuteness for those with the Tuesday blues.
They’re the equivalent of a slow-motion car wreck that you can’t stop watching when you realize you’re shamefully witnessing tragedy and misery and all the while you’re chatting with the guy standing next to you about how this particular car wreck isn’t as exciting / as boomy / as dramatic / as fun as the one you saw last week and the slurping sound of him hitting the bottom of his Super Colossal Hyper Breakfast Latte Gulp combines with the crunch of metal and shattered glass as the crowd murmurs appreciatively because they know they’re only minutes away from something even worse or better or both.
Yes, that’s what put me over the edge.
So next year, I’m going to go about the whole thing differently.
The housewares section of Snow’s Home and Garden in Orleans, Massachusetts has all the winning qualities of a glue trap. I thought I would never leave.
I managed to find my way out of their model train exhibit, their toy soldier display, and I was even able to claw myself away from their lawn furniture section. What madness is this, I thought, eyes watering and wallet throbbing.
Pool toys? Sure! Plastic plates? Why not! Eleven yards of red-checkered tablecloth? You betcha! They had…everything. Somewhere in the distance, I saw plants. They looked…nice.
I thought I was free and clear when everything went quiet.
“What’s this, Daddy?”
“That’s…a juicer.”
“It’s a stick with a pointy star thing on the tip.”
“You poke fruit with it and twist. That makes the juice come out.”
“Couldn’t you just, you know, squeeze the fruit?”
“I guess. But this is, well, faster.”
“Neat! How about this thing?”
“That’s a…a…”
“Honey, we need one of those.”
It was a box grater. My wife reached across my body and pulled it off the shelf.
“Gosh, it looks kind of sharp. I don’t know.”
“Don’t be a baby. Look, and they have one of those silvery gloves you can wear to avoid getting cut. It’s perfect.”
I did the only noble thing. I took both items and smiled.
“When we’re grating cheese can I sing like Michael Jackson?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
Ultimately, it was the kids who saved me. Some deep-rooted instinct told them how to weave past the shelves of scented candles and puzzles to the register, and they led me there before leaving the store and leaving me alone with the register lady, ringity-ring.
“Would you like a bag?”
“You betcha.”
“That’s some glove there. Why would you wear that?”
“Because cutting your fingers is not fun, that’s why.”
“Oh. Makes sense. Have a nice day.”
Which is why I now have a box grater. It’s a heck of a box grater. Do you have a box grater? Perhaps you should consider getting a box grater. And a glove so you can use it without cutting your fingers. Like I used to. Every. Damn. Time.
- Daughter: Daddy, that Blackhawk player has a really strange name.
- Me: Which player are you talking about?
- Daughter: The one with the name B Y F U G L I E N. How is it pronounced?
- Me: Blaarfingaar. It's Swedish.
- Daughter: OK, thanks Daddy.
I paint small people.
PS: These are about as tall as three quarters stacked up, but it’s not as hard as you’d think it is because you really only paint the colors in blocks. The fun part is basing them.
PPS: So this is what you do to relax? I guess that’s OK… it is less expensive than golf. And it’s about as much of a sport as golf is.
PPPS: Golf is most definitely a sport.
PPSv2: You think golf is a sport? Hockey is a sport. Football is a sport. Golf is an excuse to walk around and curse. And spend money. And dress funny.
PSv2: Are you two done? He’s got some painting to do.
PPPSv2: Stay out of this.
PPSv3: Why so cranky? Not everyone fixates over man-purses for fun like you do.
PPPSv3: I do not fixate over man-purses. They’re bags. For your stuff.
PPSv4: Ha. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got lip balm in there.
PPPSv4: Eucerin is not lip balm.
PPSv5: Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I occupy the same head as you.
PSv3: This is awfully strong talk from someone who still plays D&D.
PPSv6: I certainly do not play D&D.
PPPSv5: He plays D&D?
PSv4: And he was in all kinds of theatre productions in high school and college. Ask him about the time he was Curly in Oklahoma.
PPPSv6: Aw, isn’t that sweet. We’ve got our own little Glee guy.
PPSv7: I make no apologies for being utterly awesome.
PPPSv7: I bet you sing show tunes in the shower.
PPPPSv1: He doesn’t sing in the shower.
PSv4: Now you’ve done it.
PPPSv8: Done what?
PSv5; You’ve gotten *him* involved.
PPPPSv2: I think we’re done here.
PPSv9: Man-purse started it.
PPPSv9: Fairy.
PPPPSv3: And I’m ending it. Hit SAVE CHANGES Bob.
I was actually starting to enjoy…
PPPPSv4: Just do it.
Okey dokey, you’re the boss.
When you’ve finished watching this clever, visually-appealing but spiritually bludgeoning video, go read The Little Engine That Could a few times.
Positive thinking can bring about positive acting. This is common sense, “where your head goes your tuches will follow” stuff.
I’ll go further to say that attractive behaviors and thinking trump repulsive behaviors and thinking every time. This is also common sense, “mean people suck” stuff. Stuff your granny could have taught you if she wasn’t busy all the time at the firing range.
The lesson of the positive thinking movement is not to replace thinking for doing, but to instill confidence in the individual’s ability to achieve great things that seem insurmountable. Or at least that’s how I read it, being a positive thinker and all. It could be that it is actually all about encouraging non-action so that we’re available for easy harvesting by the potted meat machines.
(Thanks to Marc Cooperman for turning me on to this video.)
The internet makes an odd Faustian bargain with all of us - when we see things we can’t un-see, it reveals that the only way to rid ourselves of the unwanted memory is to send the offending article to someone else.
Enjoy.
I had the occasion to have a brief chat with a former colleague today. It was polite, brief, and did I mention polite? Or that it was brief? It was all four of those things.
And no, I’m not referring to you.
The French have a great word for someone who is not un ami but who is not un étranger either. That person is un camarade. You’re happy to be with them when you’re with them, but when you’re not with them, you’re also happy. They are a movie on a hotel room TV that you’ll watch instead of trying to sleep. Better than nothing, but not better.
They move in and out of your life like cars in traffic. They leave no traces. You don’t need to remove them from your speed dial or holiday card list, since they were never there to start with. Which is just swell.
There’s a word for feeling this way: vergesslichkeitsfreude, for the pleasure derived from forgetfulness. Crack that one out next time you’re hanging with the cats from Oxford and watch them blink a few times…before you catch your bus and forget all of their names, if you ever knew them in the first place. It won’t matter, because they’ll be glad to see you next time, like a scene in a movie you’ve seen a hundred times in a hundred hotel rooms that you’ll watch again and again.
And yes, I made that word up.
