'Tis the Season...

...of fresh garden tomatoes and peppers! The reasonable thing to do is toss together a bowl of pico de gallo. I have sampled this batch and declare it delish. 

 

Fuckery 101

I want the full set! There really ought to be Fuckery for Beginners as an introduction to the art. Maybe a Fuckery for Dummies for those who need a simple approach. Perhaps an occasional addendum for new fuckery that has come into practice. I might procure some old encyclopedia volumes and rebrand them with these titles. Then tuck them into my bookshelves and see if anyone notices. That would be some advanced fuckery on my part. Maybe I don't need these books at all. I feel as though I have been practicing fuckery most of my life without the benefit of studying. Not evil fuckery, mind you, just the fun kind.

  

All Hail Dorothy!

Today is Dorothy Parker's birthday. In honor of that I'm sharing my favorite poem of hers that was first published in 1928. Let's hang onto our bloom, ladies! Defy cultural norms and scandalize the pearl clutchers!

The Little Old Lady In Lavender Silk

I was seventy-seven, come August,
  I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gust
  And (symbolical) flood and simoom.

When you come to this time of abatement,
  To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
  As to what you got out of it all.

So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me
  And pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)
  There was nothing more fun than a man!

In my youth, when the crescent was too wan
  To embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don Juan
  I fell into the habit of love.

And I learned how to kiss and be merry- an
  Education left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters Pierian
  Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.

Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,
  And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,
  Were I given the chance to repeat.

For contrition is hollow and wraithful,
  And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)

  There was nothing more fun than a man! 

Validation

 Over ten years ago I expressed pretty much the same thing. I wish I knew who left this note in a bookstore. I would like to shake their hand, bake them a pie, and nominate them for the prize that keeps people from reading awful books. If there isn't such an award, there ought to be. Go forth and read only the very best smut.

 

Uiscefhuaraithe

 Painting Credit, Josef Kote "Letting Go"

Uiscefhuaraithe is a word from the Irish language that describes the specific sort of coolness imparted by water. It's a word I have recently become acquainted with and I love the sound of it when spoken by a native speaker. When I saw a photo of this painting the image whispered a word to me. Uiscefhuaraithe. Can't you just feel the coolness of the water this woman is immersed in when you look at it? 

Sweetened Condensed Love Redux

I swear I was dreaming about this last night. That I had printed up fancy little copies that I was handing out. Or maybe they were hand-written. With calligraphy and an ornamental border. Flourishes festooning a festive flyer. Seems a bit desperate. Are these the desperate times I have heard about? Or merely wretched? For whatever reason I'm in a good mood this morning. So let's go with optimistic. And as I am loathe to do anything out amongst people that can be managed remotely, I'll just post it here. Look at me being all efficient and pragmatic while I'm still in my jammies. Click on the link and see if you qualify. Life is short and I'm fabulous so what have you got to lose?

 

I'm In!

 

Obligatory Cute Cat Pic

I heard that it's national cat day. Here we see Newton and Einstein when they were wee furballs. Kittens are ridiculously cute and these two are no exception. My tiger and tux. They were excellent cats.

 

My Insulated Life

Being without a series at the moment, last night I was browsing movies on Netflix. And happened upon the documentary Hate to Love: Nickelback. Knowing little about this band other than derisive opinions I've heard, I was mildly intrigued. So I clicked and the streaming began. Over its hour and a half running time I felt sort of removed rather than engaged. Increasingly I was feeling more like I was watching a fabricated account of some fictional band. A la This is Spinal Tap. Because I live a somewhat insulated life which leaves me blissfully free from much of the current and past pop culture, I have heard of Nickelback but have never heard, at least consciously, an entire song that they perform. Meaning that as far as I am concerned, they reside in the same imaginary realm as Spinal Tap. Today I feel as though I should consult YouTube for a sampling of Nickelback's videos so I can make a reasonable determination about whether I enjoy their music or not. But I feel unmotivated. None of the snippets of songs I heard over the course of the documentary inspired me enough to look further. Part of me wants to leave them where they are. Characters in a mockumentary about a band that people seemingly love to hate. I also wish to avoid a relentless earworm that could possibly get stuck in my head and overwrite a musical motif that I enjoy having there. Maybe I should just sit back and be grateful for the insulation. Enough interesting and novel information sneaks in through the chinks to keep me entertained. It's possible that I have subliminally set up filters so only truly provocative and worthy content makes its way through into my conscious brain. This has perhaps come about to shield my delicate sensibilities from an onslaught of the mediocre. I am, after all, a sapiosexual. I am attracted to intelligence in all its forms, not just the carnal variety.  

A notable difference between the two bands is that Spinal Tap had nine drummers over its incarnation, all of whom died under weird circumstances, while Nickelback has thus far had two, both of whom are currently alive, and we hope, well.

Happy Lunasa!

I have celebrated by baking an Irish soda bread for breakfast. While listening to the soundtrack from Dancing at Lughnasa. Put the kettle on, this bread begs for a cup of tea to accompany it.