“The good lines come unbidden, though they are anticipated.” – Leonard Cohen
Rash and rational – so close, yet so far.
When Santa descends his reindeer over Panama, does he sing, “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Isthmus”?
A clean mind is a sure sign of a sick desk.
A possible explanation of why no one writes letters, from the comic strip Blondie:
Dagwood: “Boy, what terrible mail! You used to bring us much better mail when you were younger.
Mailman: “When I was younger you were younger and so were all your friends.”
Dagwood: “What’s your point?”
Mailman: “Maybe they said everything they’ve got to say.”
I was a windwalking school dropout.
Remember “morphing”? That transformation that villains would make in movies, right before your eyes? Once, around 1992, it was cool and unique. Now, in movies, people are doing that right and left. It’s so cliché they don’t even call it morphing anymore.
Beer was far better than the spilling. March 2024
What if two school teams named the Devils and the Deacons had a football game and the score was 66-6? Well, of course the Deacons would prevail, right?
We say Elsewhere and Whereabouts. Two more words we ought to use, because they would work nicely in so many situations. “Yeah, we were pals elsewhen,” and “Whenabouts are you gonna retire?”
The more pennies in a man’s pockets, the poorer he is.
There oughta be a law: if you have voice mail, use your own voice. What is it with people who have someone else record their voice message? “This is the mailbox for Larry N. Gitis, who couldn’t make his own darn vocal cords work today.” (Fact is, only dudes do this, and it’s usually a woman’s voice. Explain it to me like I’m a nine-year-old?)
“Mythical Mystic Misfits.” Rock band, superhero cadre, softball team … I don’t know which. I just like the phrase.
A packet of letters bound in ribbon or cord is an enduring image. I recently came across a forgotten bundle of my old letters, held by a dried-out rubber band. When I stretched slightly on the cracked elastic, it quietly snapped in my hand. (How does one explain the human intuition to anticipate the weakness of an old rubber band?)
I was tempted, in passing, to keep it as a memento. But it got me thinking of the romance of pulling a tightly-wrapped pile of envelopes from a drawer and slowly untying them ...
I want to meet Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson. I always thought he was one of the coolest guys in rock and roll: wild-eyed intellectual, the Cambridge-mortarboards-with-power-chords sort. Scruffy meets scholarly.
It got better when I came across the following comment from the flautist known for standing on one leg while ripping out “Aqualung” and “Living in the Past”:
“There seem to be many one-legged flute players popping up throughout history. I was born in 1947 around the time of Roswell. In fact, I suspect my mother might have been impregnated by some flute-playing aliens.”
Am I too late to ask if suggestive tweets amount to “Twit-ilation”? Which, or course, would make those who send them “twits.”
There should be a word of phrase for markings on a dry erase board you can’t quite get rid of. Dry shadows? Marker murmurs?
My first summer barbecue was such a bust. A whole book of matches and I barely seared the steak.
Instant replay in baseball: isn’t that umpirical evidence?
Last call for a riot? Tumultimatum
Went to a boring panel discussion on sleep disorders: what a somnosium.
I know if I was stuck on a desert island and I could write a note and stick it in a bottle, I’d probably write, “please send me a pen and more paper!”
That or, “Send a full bottle!”
Thanks Ned
Ian Anderson and Jethro Tull played in SanDiego in the late 60's. I was blown away by Ian Anderson's Jazz/Rock and performance.