Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz

It has been far too long since I plopped something down here yet still I’ve got nothing to say but it’s okay.

Good morning!

Good morning!

Good morning!

Mot Goes Bye-byes.

I suspect I'm getting to be a kook as I get older. Why? Because I've been finding meaning in silly coincidences.

Case in point: There's only one picture of Mot on the entire internet and I've been using it as my avatar when I comment at Althouse. A week or so back I got a funny feeling and I printed it out because I thought it might disappear forever. And then a day or two later it actually did, in fact, disappear from the internet.

So . . . yeah, I wondered out loud whether there was some kind of weird force that warned me to take action.

Ha!

Don't worry. I'm just messing with you.

It's true about the coincidence but I don't really believe unseen benevolent forces are speaking to me and telling me what to do. Hearing voices is how the guys with the giant butterfly net and the straitjacket know you're crazy. So I'm sure it was just a weird feeling. I didn't actually hear any disembodied voices.

Or maybe I did.

Maybe a voice, right now, is telling me to tell you I'm not hearing a voice.

It could happen.

But maybe that's just a feeling.

Go To Althouse

This blog was set up so I could comment at Althouse.

You should go there.

Honks Like Clarinet

Honks Like Clarinet. That would be her name if Patti Smith were Lakota Sioux or some kind of Indian where they earn themselves a name like Stands With Fist or Dances With Wolves or some such. Any of those would be much better than Types On Keyboard.

Why Patti Smith and why this song? No good reason, really. Just total capriciousness on my part, except someone once told me when I was in high school in the late 70s that she was from Pittman, NJ. I know where that is and the idea of Patti Smith growing up in Pittman is funny all by itself, even if it's not true. And this band does as much with that Am-G-F thing in a rock song as I can imagine possible.

Watch the video. That's a sensitive, arty, misfit chick absolutely brimming with tough grrrl attitude working herself into an ecstatic frenzy at the thought of buying me stuff.

What? She's not thinking about me while she's touching herself?

Right. And I suppose she isn't totally cool, either.

You're just jealous.

Do You Know This Mood?

"Now it's over I'm dead and I haven't done anything that I want or I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do."

Ask not for whom the egg salads

Were it not for Althouse, and this post, I might never have learned that Mrs. Bissage ABSOLUTELY REFUSES to eat hardboiled eggs.

After 14 years of marriage, I had no idea.

Make that: After 14 years of homemade egg salad sandwiches.

No, make that: After 14 years of utter cluelessness.

Any way you slice it, you've got to love Mrs. Bissage!

Untitled

"With Major Lawrence, mercy is a passion. With me, it is merely good manners. You may judge which motive is the more reliable."

For the Horses.

What the hay! Here's another (Christopher Hitching) post.

Untitled

"What the gods can digest will not sour in the belly of a slave."

Testing, one, two, three

Gee, how does this thing work, anyway?