Listics

Raisin’ my lonely Dental Floss
Well I just might grow me some bees
But I’d leave the sweet stuff
For somebody else…

Google fast?  Google fast!

arbogast pain in the arse, parking me h’arse bucko… on a skateboard

North Hollywood to Santa Cruz without silent bob

First published in America on June 9, 2001 by Bloomsbury. The novel follows 12-year-old Cherry, a boy who aspires to be the most famous lot lizard (a prostitute at a truck stop). Growing jealous of the beauty of his mother, he passes himself off as a female and enters the service of a pimp
who runs a truck stop brothel in West Virginia filled entirely with
young boys dressed as women. The story itself has many of the elements
of The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things (below), but has a
lighter, more humorous feel in its account of Cherry’s quest (such as
renaming himself Sarah after his mother) to become the greatest
"lizard" in the brothel. Much as in LeRoy’s earlier writing, the
protagonist falls upon bad times and faces exploitation and abuse at
the hands of another pimp. Surprisingly less dark than the short story
collection, the novel has a distinct mythical, Dickensian feel and relates a story of love of a child’s mother as expressed through his imitation of her.

You can still get the morning after pill in Formerly Nazi Occupied France.

but no yellow Hummers with PETA stickers and girls in the back seat with starry-night blue nails

I’m informed by Antonia that it is John Cale’s birthday.  One shudders to think how ancient he has become, primordial man, permanent, hoary, worn, yet ageless…  he wrote

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow’s parties
A hand-me-down dress from who knows where
To all tomorrow’s parties
And where will she go and what shall she do
When midnight comes around
She’ll turn once more to sunday’s clown
And cry behind the door

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow’s parties
Why silks and linens of yesterday’s gowns
To all tomorrow’s parties
And what will she do with thursday’s rags when monday comes around
She’ll turn once more to sunday’s clown
And cry behind the door

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow’s parties
For thursday’s child is sunday’s clown
For whom none will go mourning
A blackened shroud, a hand-me-down gown
Of rags and silks, a costume
Fit for one who sits and cries
For all tomorrow’s parties

[and, from the rolling stone interview of 1996...]

Have you ever surfed the
Internet?

Yes. I’ve been looking for crime
statistics in China. I want to find out about the problems they have there with
youth. They have a serious unrest problem because of all the entrepreneurship
and the disparity between different provinces.

If you had to give Lou Reed a
job reference, what would it be?

Hard worker.

What do you want your epitaph
to be?

No talking in the library.

The phrase "on my watch" is so much pretentious bullshit exceeded only by the delusional "not on MY watch!"  Bush is reported to have written "Not on my watch" in the margins of a report on the genocide in Rwanda.  I’m sure he meant that the Rwanda thing didn’t happen on his watch so he couldn’t be blamed for it.  He has other excuses for the things that have happened on his so called "watch."

Fresh from the Oscar Party at Riverbend, I’m reminded by Mike that it’s going on three years and the swamp just gets deeper and the alligators more ferocious…

I would like to remind all the ignoramuses who in 2003 shouted down comparisons to Vietnam that there have been 2305 American deaths in Iraq since the illegal petro-imperialist war of aggression began, all but about 150 of these since we allowed that imbecile in the flight suit to chivy us with his "Mission accomplished" propaganda in May, 2003.  This happened entirely "on Bush’s watch."  That makes him a prime candidate for war crimes prosecution.  He doesn’t have to share the stage with anybody but his own A-team.

Trying to lose weight.  A lot to lose, but a modest goal.  Mindful eating.  The diet had already begun last Saturday when I was in the General Counsel’s Office trying to sort out a network problem on a PC.  On the food table… two packages of Stroopwafels.  Ever the picture of moderation, I opened the bag and had only one.

Admission.  Before I left I opened the bag again and had another.

[Thanks to Tamar for her recent post referencing these treats.  Having missed her prior post, I hadn't heard of them before, then bingo, twice in a week.  The synchronicity meter is redlining this week.]