I Will Blog For You
(These 5 Words I Swear To You)
or maybe but probably not:
Love In The Time Of Bloggera
The Flamingos on the turntable, autumn through the screens, and we were making salmon for dinner. But there was a disconnect in the kitchen, everywhere really. Talk wasn’t leading to talk, and everything felt like throwing darts blindfolded. I’d already asked what was wrong, and it did make sense she was tired. A slow pitch: “I wonder what the Daily Show will do for Rob Ford, y’know?” Mmm, she said, forking a potato. ”Honey,” removing the oven mits, eye on the fork, “what is it? Something’s up.” She whipped around like a dirt devil — I actually felt my hair move & I took a step backwards. "How long has it #%&*ing been, Paul?" How long has what been? "OH STOPPIT." Maneuver: I turned to salt the salmon and could hippies smell fear(?). She definitely did not say one word. The record needed to be flipped. ”How long has what been, sweetheart?” "How long has it been since you posted a goddamn video of a Kiwi in a field shocking her bare ass on an electric fence? that’s what" …My God, she was right. ”M-ONTHS,” she snapped, “MONTHS!” So true so right, deep breath: here I am in the name of true love, in the name of diligently maintaining one’s relationship foundation. ”You’re doing it then!?” I am. ”Well at least make it one with, like, a surprise ending or something.” I will, my love.
L.A. Gator Farm, Early 20th Century
Devon is up early. She is going on a bird walk. You should see her with her bird book and her old binoculars, her ice coffee and directions to a field. So I am up early, too. 100 years ago, I’d so be at the L.A. Gator Farm with my 25-cent admission fee and a borrowed kid. Or maybe I would be there because I was an employee. O, maybe even the owner! With my name on the sign in cursive. And word of my fair treatment of my workers and animals would spread and fathers would take a knee and whisper, “Son, there goes the professor.”
How He Made It
A Short History Of Wes Anderson’s Career. For those killing a bit of time waiting for the wife to come back from Brighton before heading off to one last concert tonight in Leamington, those with a big white duffle of laundry packed & aimed toward home, maybe drinking their friends’ coffee. Other parts here.
1916 Suffragette Scooter
Will The Car On The Ramp Get Eaten By A Hamburger?
Watch the whole thing because I maybe put a twist at the end when what happens is like the burger eats the car.
*update: silent version
Beautiful! Good morning!
RIP Dakota Cat 1992-2013
My Kim’s cat, Cody, has passed on at the age of 21. Old enough to drive, vote, enlist, drink, and graduate college, poor Cody had his eyes set on finally renting a car in a couple years. I really liked Cody. He didn’t have any claws, but nobody told him, so he punched my brother in the face a lot and also told outta-line dogs what’s what. He was a good friend to Kim.
Regarding this photo: “19th-century coal miners traditionally took caged canaries down into the mine as an early warning system for carbon monoxide. If the canary stopped singing, the miner would know he had to escape. This particular yellow canary was obviously a favoured pet as well as a working bird. Inscribed with the legend : ‘In Memory of Little Joe. Died November 3rd 1875. Aged 3 Years.’”