perfidy

This is shameless self-promotion, but it's also free self-promotion, so I'm putting it to good use.

I have a little shopping blog called SmartLassy, and since May, I've been using it to point people toward cool stuff that might appeal to goofy, geeky girls like me.

Recently, I decided to stop promoting other people's stuff and make an attempt at selling cool stuff directly from my site. My goal is to eventually sit atop a giant Scrooge McDuck pile of money, cackling with glee whilst drinking a pink libation from a martini glass. Ah, dreams.

Anyway, won't you please go check out the site? And if you're feeling generous, you could tell other people about it. That would be awful nice of you.

I was always taught that when learning new words, it helps to use them in a sentence or to apply them to other things we see in the world around us.

I heard such a new word several years ago, in the comic act of (the unfortunately now departed) Richard Jeni, but had until yesterday been unable to find a context for it outside of his "A Steaming Pile of Me" performance.

No more. That word? Vagenda.

"NYC doorman suspended for bad breath"

From the afternoon inbox, I thought I'd share:

HOW THE FIGHT STARTED

I rear-ended a car this morning. So there we are alongside the road and slowly the driver gets out of the car . . .and you know how you just get sooo stressed out and life-stuff seems to get funny?

Yeah, well, I could NOT believe it. . . he was a DWARF! He storms over to my car, looks up at me and says, 'I AM NOT HAPPY!'

So, I look down at him and say, 'Well, which one are you then?'. . . and that's when the fight started . . .

I know you're all as shocked as I am to learn that Evel Knievel has died.

See, I figure he actually died a long, long time ago. It's just taken him this long to stop moving.

Ian

it's kinda tricky to litter when you're going 1600mph.

From today's inbox:

Thanksgiving Divorce

A man in Phoenix calls his son in New York the day before Thanksgiving and says, "I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.

"Pop, what are you talking about?" the son screams.

"We can't stand the sight of each other any longer," the father says. "We're sick of each other, and I'm sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Chicago and tell her."

Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. "Like heck they're getting divorced," she shouts, "I'll take care of this," She calls Phoenix immediately, and screams at her father, "You are NOT getting divorced. Don't do a single thing until I get there. I'm calling my brother back, and we'll both be there tomorrow. Until then, don't do a thing, DO YOU HEAR ME?" and hangs up.

The old man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife. "Okay," he says, "they're coming for Thanksgiving and paying their own way."

Happy Thanksgiving, all.

Not with a bang, but a whistle.

Longtime Ministry minion and consummate wordsmith Othershoe sums up his final hours at the job he detests. The poetry of his remark ought not be lost on the reader, as Othershow does in fact have a MFA from a respectable program and surely had TS Eliot in mind as he penned,

"Friday is my last day -- get my check, rub my balls on the computer keyboard, and leave whistling."

[wik] Apologies from the Ministry of Future Perfidy, the video and the account that created it on youtube no longer exist.

Just like most other people, I tend to lose track of the days as I age.

It's not out of a desire to retain my yoot, clutching it well past the time when it's no longer OK to wear t-shirts advertising liquor brands. I made peace with aging and maturity awhile ago. Still stings sometimes, but fighting it is so pathetic and sad, and anyway, without getting too Holden Caulfield about it, no one likes a phony.

So we get on with our lives, work our jobs and and generate debt and make genetic replicants of ourselves, and while we all know the day (usually) and the date (after some reflection), we just lose the single days, flushed downstream in the time torrent with our last jobs, our old debt, and the baby pictures of grown children.

Occasionally we get a reminder that really hits home how far we've come, that makes us pop our heads above the time stream, look around, and say "Oh, is that where we are", then are overwhelmed by the weight of passing years. In my case, it is a detail- a turn of phrase, a scent (no, really), or, like today, a number.

As of today, the euro is worth $1.43. When I was stationed in Germany, a doillar was worth about 1.40 deutschmarks. I don't recall the exchange rate getting higher than about DM1.37 or so, but a few pennies here, some pfennigs there, and close enough.

So with the relationship inverted, for some reason that triggered my temporal awareness, and the rest of the day I will be thinking about how that year is very nearly the median of my lifespan thus far.

Anyone else know that song?

I digress...

Last week the wife and I were out in the woods north of here, just south of the border with Cow Hampshire, hunkered down in a blind in the foggy morning dew. And just as the sun peeped up over the horizon, there he was! A magnificent specimen, just sauntering through the meadow before us without a care in the world, making for the Lego cache we'd placed.

Long story short, first day of the season and we bagged us a heckuva prize. Look at this pelt! Gorgeous! And the meat... I did a thigh roast with roasted pears, rosemary and a few juniper berries, and it was spectacular. I'm salting down the rest for winter tomorrow.

Just look at that pelt!!!

Coast to coast in 32 hours or less.

Facinating discourse on the redemptive and cathartic power of cursing.

At one point back in mid-April, I stepped on the bathroom scale and was surprised by what I saw. Shocked, even. I was a solid fift...no, more precisely, I was a flabby fifteen pounds heavier than I thought, or believed, or fantasized, I was.

I finally reached a point where I was not only disappointed in my own appearance, but sickened.

So I started swimming, and after a couple months started regular Nautilus circuits. I ran a little during the day, but- as expected- it's a little too hard on my tibiae; treadmill might be better than the track in that regard, but I loathe treadmills.

Much of September was a total wash, due to a ridiculous side project I was working on, and frankly I needed that hour-a-night of gym time to work on it. I'm trying to get back into an exercise routine but that project is becoming like poop on your shoe, except for the most peritnent distinction: that the poop is paying you for being there.

Anyway, as of last Saturday I was down 31 pounds from my April grossness. Given the vagaries of the last six weeks or so, I probably scraped 30 in early September. All of my fat pants have gone to Goodwill, and a coupla pairs I bought to replace those are on their way out. But without all this extracurricular work, and a little more discipline, I would probably be closing in on 50 pounds by now. I've pushed that off to the end of the calendar year, but as long as my side work doesn't go away, the weight probably won't either.

But back on point, it's pretty sobering to lose 12-13% of your body weight and still be a fat bastard. I mean, I keep realistic goals in mind- like fitting into the shorts I bought months ago with the 32 waist. Looking like Brad Pitt in Fight Club is out of the question for a working slob who just crossed into the latter half of his 30s. But I know though that slicing off another 20, 25 pounds is possible and achievable (besides, I did it once before as a much younger man), and if I can look in the mirror and not feel nauseous, I think I've won.

And those 32 shorts: I can button them, but I look like a balloon with a rubber band around it.

Which is progress.

and all I can say is, "Let the wild rumpus start!" Ministry pal and certified smart dude NDR discussed children's books a little bit ago, and what he's been reading to his son. Our sons are pretty close in age (mine turned two last week), and I was not surprised to find similar behaviors and interests between them. While I read to the Li'lest Lethal at night primarily, we still play games and such when appropriate during the day. We'll point out letters on signage, for example, or play with his little foam letters during tub time. As with NDR's boy, mine will follow along as best he can remember. S'funny the stuff they remember; I'll never fathom why certain bits are worth the storage space in the mind and some aren't. Eh, same with everybody I guess- I can recall a lot of minutiae about Jimi Hendrix, say, but have largely forgotten what little trigonometry I ever knew. Anyway, here's what's in heavy rotation at my house:

The French have invented something cool, and it's the NYorker reporting it, natch.

Typographical criticism, Death from Above and Frank Admiration.

Aside from "My name is Al Sharpton" (which I take at face value to be the truth), this:

"Our position has nothing to do with whether the person using the language is black or white, rich or poor, friend or foe," Sharpton said on Saturday, reiterating what he has been saying since the trial ended. "We cannot have different standards for sexism or racism."

Well... we did.

Linus John:

... and with a very sleep-deprived papa, enjoying the soothing tones of Cuban dance music played at deafening volume. Good kid. (Nota bene: even on no sleep with a new infant in the house, I still look at least 5-8 years younger than my actual age. Good genes, evidently!)