I haven’t much had the desire (or time) to blog since coming back from Nashville. I was away from the computer all weekend and in contact with many of the people with whom I use this blog to communicate, so I didn’t really have any reason or means to write. And now that I’m back here, it’s clear that my visit just renewed my homesickness and that my previous post rings a little hollow: The…
Just this quickly, and then to bed. Not last night, but the night before, I got off work at 8:30 and when I came home — I don’t know if it was the chilly, real autumn weather or the way the apartment was lit when I walked in, or the public access radio playing in the living room, or the smell of food cooking, or what exactly — I felt like I was actually coming…
Whenever the room temperature drops anywhere near 72 degrees Farenheit or below, as it did yesterday, because — despite the beautifully mild temperature outside — the air conditioner was left on all day, the middle-aged ladies in the newsroom dig deep into their filing cabinets and bring forth great heaping masses of wool to wrap around their torsos. Some put on gloves. Some wear knit hats. Then they flit from desk to desk, making conversation…
It seems like spare moments have been squeezed out of this week altogether. Monday I had planned to do some trip preparation in anticipation of my sojourn to M’boro/Nashville this coming weekend, but I got called in to work. Since then it’s been all work, all the time, pretty much. I can’t wait to see everybody, though. It’s been too long since we all got together. The best part about the MT-Vandy game will be…
This apartment is carnival of home-repair nightmares. Saturday night I stumbled to bed at 4:30 a.m. and stepped in something wet at the top of the stairs. Repulsed and imagining it was either cat pee or vomit, I flicked on the light and saw that it was water, dripping from the ceiling. It had been raining all day, so I figured that it was just a random leak. But it was dripping from a softball-sized…
Things have been a bit less tense here today, since Rita petered out a bit and smacked the coast up but didn’t do the widespread catastrophic damage we all feared, though I’m not sure about the death toll so far. If I was from New Orleans and had been evacuated to Houston, and then evacuated elsewhere to flee Rita, I would feel like God had a beef with me personally. What’s scary is that hurricane…
(AP photo from Pascagoula, Miss.) Even here, the sunset was menacing tonight. Like the horizon was moody and frowning. If you’re so inclined, say a prayer for those in Rita’s path. If you’re not so inclined, do it anyway. It can’t hurt.
I can’t wait for “Extras,” the new Ricky Gervais/Stephen Merchant comedy on HBO. But I don’t have HBO, so I guess I will have to wait a few months for it to come out on DVD. In “Extras,” Gervais plays Andy Millman, a luckless actor trying desperately to move from anonymous extra to a character with actual dialogue. His biggest problem? A knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. His inept agent,…
I’m going to risk harming my amateur-poetry karma by hating on this, the worst poem ever, written by David.the.Poet, the anti-feminism movement’s poet laureate, apparently. What do Womyn Want? What do womyn really want the world of men would like to know for the feminine gender often contradict themselves by saying one thing while doing another To many men a womyn is a mysterious creature a goddess from another planet unfathomable by their shallow minds…
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