Hey, Gene Poolers -- it's not too late (if you get a ticket very soon, before it sells out) to join a group of us Loser types on Sunday, Oct. 15, at the Maryland Renaissance Festival in Anne Arundel County, nearish Annapolis. We'll grab lunches -- giant turkey legs are always popular -- at any of the various comestible dispensaries, and sit together somewhere, and take in the various sights, performances, and activities. You have to buy a ticket in advance to get in (rennfest.com). Then RSVP to Loser Activities Pope Kyle Hendrickson bit.ly/inv-rennfest-2023. Some people will be there as early as 10 a.m., but lunch won't be till at least noon. I'll be there and would be happy to meet you!
Re: Pat's olives comment: As if I would have any olives in my house! I do not understand what's appealing about any food that's bitter, much less with a half-rubbery, half-mushy texture. I still shudder remembering the time I was tricked into eating a black olive that was masquerading as a ripe, juicy grape on a buffet table.
I agree, and the entry about black licorice (YUK) and olives was my very favorite this week. Plus, have you noticed how terribly salty olives are? Ugh.
Speaking of sheep. Years ago, sheep grazed in a large lawn at the base of Edinburgh Castle in Scotland. There were signs warning "No Worrying of Sheep". I wanted to walk up to the sheep and whisper, "mint jelly".
Hey Gene - I share your view about selfish drivers who insist on backing into parking spaces because their time is more important than mine.
Where do you put people who spray their windshield with people driving behind them, resulting in me frantically trying to wipe their spray off MY windshield. In my mind, this person is up there with seat recliners on an airplane.
Re: The greatest railroad song ever written, “The City of New Orleans” has “freight yards full of old black men.” When Willie Nelson sang it, he changed that line to "full of old, gray men," indicating the age of the guys without reference to race.
Arlo Guthrie, whose version is probably the best-known, sings "old black men." I would argue that "old, gray men" can be construed as redundant and doesn't project as vivid an image.
We once had a cat we would take for walks, using a harness and 10-foot-long cord for a leash. We had a picnic lunch at a nearby park, and the cat wandered off as cats will (yeah, we were clueless). A few minutes later someone came up to us and asked, “Is that your cat?” She had chased a squirrel up a tree, the cord got caught in a branch, and the cat was dangling from the branch, swinging like a pendulum. (There was no danger of her choking, the harness was strapped around her shoulders.) Cats do not like to look foolish.
We never had a dog long enough for it to do anything especially smart or dumb (our first dog, an adopted stray, turned out to be someone else's dog that had been roadtripped for getting into a neighbor's flower bed, and the second dog ran under a car shortly after getting all her shots), but for the first seven years of our marriage (before children) we had a squirrel monkey (the Christmas gift my husband had come home with when he'd intended to get a kitten). We lived in a second-floor apartment, and the Little Dude (as he was dubbed) was able to come and go through an open window. We often found that neighbors who didn't know us by sight were familiar with the Little Dude and surprised to learn he belonged to us. There was a wooded area across the parking lot from the apartment block, and we could tell the Little Dude was marauding there when the blue jays started kicking up a fuss. He loved to steal eggs out of birds' nests and eat them. He also had a very sweet tooth. We gave him miniature marshmallows as treats but had to keep the sugar bowl put away to prevent him from dipping into it. One day on of our neighbors offered him candy and enticed him into her house and then became frantic when she couldn't get him out. We thought she was the one who was stupid.
I didn't participate in the poll today because the choice of answers did not include what would have been mine, which is where I actually live: a small town. We live close in enough to walk to the downtown commercial district and can also see Mobile Bay from our house. If we wanted anything in a big city (we rarely do), Mobile is there--not really the sort of big city one would want to live in, though.
No, I grew up in the suburbs of Louisville, Houston, and Bethesda, and where I lived was nothing like a small town. If you've never lived in a small town, you wouldn't understand the difference. My small town has suburbs galore--they keep extending to the east and south as far as possible, and those of us who live closer in are appalled by the way the suburbs are using up our water and other resources.
His name was Mort (after a beloved grandfather). Mort the mutt of indeterminate lineage. He was my first requited love --- Carla Cardozo, also of the 6th grade, being the unrequited one. Technically a "family" pet, but my parents didn't much deal in domestic technicalities, so Mort was mine. Mort agreed to the arrangement immediately. Crazy, joyful Mort who knew almost as quickly what he was up against with a moody, mopey 11-year-old with plenty of acquaintances, but no real friends. Truth be told, I preferred my own company and that of the extraordinary, undemanding characters I found in books. Until crazy, joyful Mort --- who would do a high-speed zoomie around the backyard until he was winded, then do another, the other way, once he caught his breath --- just because he could. Crazy, joyful Mort who would hop up on a bedside armchair and patiently attempt to stare me up until he could no longer wait (about three minutes), and take a flying leap onto the bed and me. In addition to being crazy and joyful, Mort was an eternal optimist. He could usually be found carrying around his favorite food bowl, like the chew toys or random twig preferred by his canine brethren.
His favorite bowl, that is, for the day. He had three, one of which he selected with great care each day, similar to choosing an engagement ring. Those flying leaps onto my bed almost always came with the accompanying bowl; subtlety was not one of Mort's obvious personality traits. But "The Bowl," it turned out, had a deeper significance for both of us. If Mort happened to catch me in a particularly mopey, sigh-filled moment, he would gently place the normally untouchable bowl next to me with a single expectant bark. To this day, I'm not sure whether the gesture meant, "Snap out of it pal. Look what I'm willing to give up," or "Feed me pal and you'll feel better." Either way, it brought the desired smile.
Re: lactose intolerance--I'm pretty sure that the gut microbiome plays a major role. I think there are lots of people out there who are actually lactose intolerant but who have gut bacteria that cover it up.
I was fine with lactose for a long time; then I had food poisoning three times in the span of about five years, and by the end of that I was plainly lactose intolerant. So it wouldn't surprise me if someone had the reverse situation where a change in the microbiome would prevent symptoms of lactose intolerance.
>>> My brother once had a snake in a large terrarium. He would feed it live mice, which bothered >>>him on an epistemological level: “I am feeding a mammal to a reptile.”
This really used to bother me; it was like reversing evolution. The snake's name was Jake, and he was a sweetie, but dumb as a post. Gorgeous Brazilian Rainbow Boa, so named because they iridesce in multicolored splendor. He used to show his affection, (or his appetite, I was never sure) by curling around my neck and squeezing. About 8 feet long and the diameter of my forearm. Carried him around in a pillowcase.
Hey, Gene Poolers -- it's not too late (if you get a ticket very soon, before it sells out) to join a group of us Loser types on Sunday, Oct. 15, at the Maryland Renaissance Festival in Anne Arundel County, nearish Annapolis. We'll grab lunches -- giant turkey legs are always popular -- at any of the various comestible dispensaries, and sit together somewhere, and take in the various sights, performances, and activities. You have to buy a ticket in advance to get in (rennfest.com). Then RSVP to Loser Activities Pope Kyle Hendrickson bit.ly/inv-rennfest-2023. Some people will be there as early as 10 a.m., but lunch won't be till at least noon. I'll be there and would be happy to meet you!
The Farting Capybaras would make a fine name for a band.
Agreed.
Dave Barry must play in this band.
Dave Barry must play the Farting Capybara.
Re: Pat's olives comment: As if I would have any olives in my house! I do not understand what's appealing about any food that's bitter, much less with a half-rubbery, half-mushy texture. I still shudder remembering the time I was tricked into eating a black olive that was masquerading as a ripe, juicy grape on a buffet table.
I agree, and the entry about black licorice (YUK) and olives was my very favorite this week. Plus, have you noticed how terribly salty olives are? Ugh.
Speaking of sheep. Years ago, sheep grazed in a large lawn at the base of Edinburgh Castle in Scotland. There were signs warning "No Worrying of Sheep". I wanted to walk up to the sheep and whisper, "mint jelly".
In Vermont, you can be criminally charged with “Worrying a Moose.”
and also killed by said moose.
The cantina band in Star Wars is Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes. It is the genre of music that was renamed. I cite Wookieepedia as my source.
https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Figrin_D%27an_and_the_Modal_Nodes
Just learned that the band in Return of the Jedi, the Max Rebo Band, was originally named Evar Orbus and His Galactic Jizz-Wailers.
"When Orbus was killed in a firefight with Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes, the remaining members reformed the group into the Max Rebo Band."
Hey Gene - I share your view about selfish drivers who insist on backing into parking spaces because their time is more important than mine.
Where do you put people who spray their windshield with people driving behind them, resulting in me frantically trying to wipe their spray off MY windshield. In my mind, this person is up there with seat recliners on an airplane.
I do it intentionally to tailgaters. Have you been tailgating me?
Re: The greatest railroad song ever written, “The City of New Orleans” has “freight yards full of old black men.” When Willie Nelson sang it, he changed that line to "full of old, gray men," indicating the age of the guys without reference to race.
Arlo Guthrie, whose version is probably the best-known, sings "old black men." I would argue that "old, gray men" can be construed as redundant and doesn't project as vivid an image.
Adding much deserved love to the Orang story. Brilliant.
We once had a cat we would take for walks, using a harness and 10-foot-long cord for a leash. We had a picnic lunch at a nearby park, and the cat wandered off as cats will (yeah, we were clueless). A few minutes later someone came up to us and asked, “Is that your cat?” She had chased a squirrel up a tree, the cord got caught in a branch, and the cat was dangling from the branch, swinging like a pendulum. (There was no danger of her choking, the harness was strapped around her shoulders.) Cats do not like to look foolish.
OMG!! "Is that your cat?" How did you get it down??
We held the cat in our arms, and untangled the cord from the branch. After I stopped laughing. My wife was not amused.
I assume, for this contest, that you can combine two short lines into one, per the first example. On Dylan's website, it appears as two lines.
As you know, the holiday season starts at the stroke of midnight on October 1 (1 October in most other parts of the world). The Mütter Museum (at The College of Physicians of Philadelphia) heart-felt souvenir to be the winning prize for..uh...developing a pair (Invite, Week 39), reminded me that this strange, wonderful place devoted to the mysteries of the the human body and the history of the diagnosis and treatment of disease has much to offer those who have everything. Or more appropriately, perhaps --- have had everything. Yes, I'm talking about an exciting array of jolly 5-8" plush microbes from the museum store for gifts guaranteed to astound those near and dear. There are the ever-popular STDs: chlamydia (https://www.muttermuseumstore.org/cdn/shop/products/chlamydia-cluster_540x.jpeg?v=1438801277 and herpes (https://www.muttermuseumstore.org/cdn/shop/products/herpes-cluster_540x.jpeg?v=1438799725) for those with a roving eye (and other parts). Budding OB/GYNs are sure to delight in a plush uterus (https://www.muttermuseumstore.org/cdn/shop/products/UTERUS-no-hangtag_1024x1024_1c5c562d-105f-479d-af5b-e319b8db00f6_360x.jpeg?v=1438801394 And who among us who regularly uses artificial sweeteners could resist spending time away from the commode with the plush, squeezable version of the diarrhea-causing campylobacter bacterium ? https://www.muttermuseumstore.org/cdn/shop/products/gmus-pd-0195_diarrhea_cluster_540x.jpeg?v=1438800742
We never had a dog long enough for it to do anything especially smart or dumb (our first dog, an adopted stray, turned out to be someone else's dog that had been roadtripped for getting into a neighbor's flower bed, and the second dog ran under a car shortly after getting all her shots), but for the first seven years of our marriage (before children) we had a squirrel monkey (the Christmas gift my husband had come home with when he'd intended to get a kitten). We lived in a second-floor apartment, and the Little Dude (as he was dubbed) was able to come and go through an open window. We often found that neighbors who didn't know us by sight were familiar with the Little Dude and surprised to learn he belonged to us. There was a wooded area across the parking lot from the apartment block, and we could tell the Little Dude was marauding there when the blue jays started kicking up a fuss. He loved to steal eggs out of birds' nests and eat them. He also had a very sweet tooth. We gave him miniature marshmallows as treats but had to keep the sugar bowl put away to prevent him from dipping into it. One day on of our neighbors offered him candy and enticed him into her house and then became frantic when she couldn't get him out. We thought she was the one who was stupid.
I didn't participate in the poll today because the choice of answers did not include what would have been mine, which is where I actually live: a small town. We live close in enough to walk to the downtown commercial district and can also see Mobile Bay from our house. If we wanted anything in a big city (we rarely do), Mobile is there--not really the sort of big city one would want to live in, though.
wouldn't you call yourself suburban? close to a big city, in a small city?
No, I grew up in the suburbs of Louisville, Houston, and Bethesda, and where I lived was nothing like a small town. If you've never lived in a small town, you wouldn't understand the difference. My small town has suburbs galore--they keep extending to the east and south as far as possible, and those of us who live closer in are appalled by the way the suburbs are using up our water and other resources.
His name was Mort (after a beloved grandfather). Mort the mutt of indeterminate lineage. He was my first requited love --- Carla Cardozo, also of the 6th grade, being the unrequited one. Technically a "family" pet, but my parents didn't much deal in domestic technicalities, so Mort was mine. Mort agreed to the arrangement immediately. Crazy, joyful Mort who knew almost as quickly what he was up against with a moody, mopey 11-year-old with plenty of acquaintances, but no real friends. Truth be told, I preferred my own company and that of the extraordinary, undemanding characters I found in books. Until crazy, joyful Mort --- who would do a high-speed zoomie around the backyard until he was winded, then do another, the other way, once he caught his breath --- just because he could. Crazy, joyful Mort who would hop up on a bedside armchair and patiently attempt to stare me up until he could no longer wait (about three minutes), and take a flying leap onto the bed and me. In addition to being crazy and joyful, Mort was an eternal optimist. He could usually be found carrying around his favorite food bowl, like the chew toys or random twig preferred by his canine brethren.
His favorite bowl, that is, for the day. He had three, one of which he selected with great care each day, similar to choosing an engagement ring. Those flying leaps onto my bed almost always came with the accompanying bowl; subtlety was not one of Mort's obvious personality traits. But "The Bowl," it turned out, had a deeper significance for both of us. If Mort happened to catch me in a particularly mopey, sigh-filled moment, he would gently place the normally untouchable bowl next to me with a single expectant bark. To this day, I'm not sure whether the gesture meant, "Snap out of it pal. Look what I'm willing to give up," or "Feed me pal and you'll feel better." Either way, it brought the desired smile.
Re: lactose intolerance--I'm pretty sure that the gut microbiome plays a major role. I think there are lots of people out there who are actually lactose intolerant but who have gut bacteria that cover it up.
I was fine with lactose for a long time; then I had food poisoning three times in the span of about five years, and by the end of that I was plainly lactose intolerant. So it wouldn't surprise me if someone had the reverse situation where a change in the microbiome would prevent symptoms of lactose intolerance.
>>> My brother once had a snake in a large terrarium. He would feed it live mice, which bothered >>>him on an epistemological level: “I am feeding a mammal to a reptile.”
This really used to bother me; it was like reversing evolution. The snake's name was Jake, and he was a sweetie, but dumb as a post. Gorgeous Brazilian Rainbow Boa, so named because they iridesce in multicolored splendor. He used to show his affection, (or his appetite, I was never sure) by curling around my neck and squeezing. About 8 feet long and the diameter of my forearm. Carried him around in a pillowcase.