Lately I’ve been watching a lot of Roseanne reruns on Oxygen. I remember watching the show way back when I was a kid and it was ABC’s big hit for all those years, but only now that I’m older and there’s some learnin’ in my head do I realize what a truly fantastic show it is, on tons of different levels. Obviously, the show is funny in its own right, progressive agendas notwithstanding. The writing…
Gentlemen, let us use my encounter with the man at a local 24-hour pharmacy’s checkout counter to help you hone your Game. If you expect to get a bite, don’t follow the falsely innocuous “You look so familiar — where are you from?” and “So, are you currently involved with anyone?” questions up with any of the following: “I didn’t think you looked like a 12-year-old coming up in here who didn’t have anybody.” (WTF…
Bwa ha ha! This is hilarious. Hilariously SAD. HT: Feministe
Built to Spill will be at the Deli tomorrow. I won’t be at the Deli; I’ll be at work.
Hipsters and emo kids: If a moderately observant Memphis motorist can see you cruising by her in traffic and mistake you — with your dyed-black, vertically sculpted, asymmetrical hair and long sideburns atop a baby face dwarfed by thick, large, gold sunglasses — for an Elvis impersonator, it may be time to move on to a new look.
I can’t remember all of them, but there were a lot of dogs in my dreams last night. The last one — and the one that finally woke me up — was a giant bull mastiff wearing a backward baseball cap, his paws on my parents’ door, his big sad eyes peering into the house.
Actually, it burns for no one in particular. It just burns. I’ve been reading up on peptic and duodenal ulcers, and by golly I think I may have one of those damn things, probably duodenal. Either that or acid reflux disease. Because for several months now I’ve had chronic chest pain and burning. Mostly burning. Every day. Several times a day. Could it be? Could my lower esophageal sphincter be defective? Dear lord, they don’t…
It might surprise no one and everyone — I’m not sure which — that I haven’t yet read The Da Vinci Code — that bastion of hypermarketed literary sensation. But I am in the process of remedying that egregious infraction, thanks in large part to Ashley lending me her hefty illustrated hardcover copy — a volume that, as I lie in bed leafing through it, gives me occasional college-era flashbacks to a time when I…
When the pain comes out of nowhere while you are putting a warm leftover hamburger on loaf bread for lunch, and the throbbing pools within you and weakens your knees, threatening to tear your insides out, and suddenly the burger is on the coffee table and you are doubled up on the couch, trying to quell the intensity of the pain that, though it came from nowhere, feels like it’s been there forever, a pain…
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