EVEN IF THERE’S LITTLE TO read — sometimes, especially if there’s little to read — nothing beats sharing an early morning newspaper with someone you love.
“I SEE YOUR LOGIC, MADAM, and raise you a contradiction.”
(Line derived from conversation with Ann, whose blog is also very cool. — The Mgt.)
CLEAN DISHES NOT ONLY LOOK nice, they’re more healthy to eat from. Everyone has their own special method for this daily (or twice-daily) chore, and I’ve found this one to be most efficient in terms of time and water savings:
YOU WILL NEED:
- Large or divided sink
- Drain rack
- Dirty dishes
- Dishwashing soap (I like good ol’ yellow-bottled Crystal White for its inexpensivity and universality)
- Rubber gloves
- Sponge with one soft-scrub side
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IN THE STARS MY DESTINATION
, Alfred Bester imagines a world peopled (in part) by a cast-off group of future savages who chant scientific formulae during their religious rituals. “Quant Suff!” they chant, in abbreviated imitation of “sufficient quantity.” “Quant Suff!”
At the Renaissance Pleasure Faire, I inhabited a world peopled (in part) by a cast-off group of fannish folk who sometimes chant together after consuming a quasi-alchemic formula during their quasi-religious rituals. “Trolle Sweate!” they chant, in inebriated consequence of quant suff. “Trolle Sweate!”
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IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE Renaissance Pleasure Faire and a guy named Greg Pursley, who hired me to help him sell fencing lessons in Elizabethan garb and accent. The Cardiff Rose was no mere concession but a virtual privateer, with each crewmember having a complete character history as an aid to improvisational acting. (Fun? “Those who know, grin.”) In the interests of all-in-one-eggbasketry writingwise, I’m including here my own, or rather that of “Will Thrustwell,” purple prose and all, just as written in 198…8? 9? It’s necessarily in-jokey for a tight circle of friends (and includes the origin of “Trolle Sweate,” a particularly potent potable with which “Thrustwell” is synonymous). Some of whom may get a bit of a nostalgic hoot hereout, others may simply enjoy. I know I did. (Even the “heaving, tortured bosom.”)
UPDATE: I just Googled “Will Thrustwell” on a whim. All I can say is, “If it’s not a pirate, it’s not me.”
Thrustwell’s Tale, or Beware the Bottle
(Being the Somewhat Revised, yet Mercifully Succinct, History
Senior Pilot of the
Set down by his good friend Peter Boggs, Special Correspondent to the London Illustrated News
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MY CREATIVE WIFE, ANN, HAS created something potentially important at http://sacredwilderness.net/2010/12/laughing-out-loud/ for those who wear their pride on sleeve, chest or coffeecup.
Mesmerizing, isn’t it? Act now and put this design on a T-shirt, tote bag or refrigerator magnet at http://www.cafepress.com/inyourhand. If applicable, Live The Acronym! and if commitedly applicable, let Sonoma Valley make your destination wedding dreams come true.)
THERE WOULD BE NO need for Scrabble.
Or Chinese checkers.
Or black and white movies.
Or fireplaces with crackling conversation.
But if there were no you(1),
the sun might as well just shine.
(1) Fill in name of your best beloved here. Animals count.
“I WAS JUST ABOUT TO say the exact same thing!”
RETRIEVING THE MORNING NEWSPAPER AFFORDS a fine slice of the constellations marching overhead, thereby demonstrating that sometimes you can do two things at once.
MARRIAGE IS NOT A MATTER of being with the one you get along with better than anyone, so much as one with whom not getting along is preferable to being alone — and without whom you wouldn’t get along at all.
(On the occasion of his 16th wedding anniversary, which is three months shy of their 22nd meeting-anniversary, which latter is (two years less than) half his life, which really isn’t long enough at all)
HAD WE THE MEANS, I would hire a brass band to play a grand-style Sousa rouse in approximately four hours and forty-five minutes.
That’s when Ann, my wife, companion and partner for going-on-twenty-two years returns from her last final exam as an undergraduate.
It’s been about four years since she began this enterprise through Sonoma State University‘s bachelor-of-liberal-arts-for-working-adults program, which enterprise actually began 40 years ago in the foothills of Oakland back in California’s glorious days of free (yes, FREE) community college, or rebegan in the mid-1990s when we both started attending the justly top-rated Santa Rosa Junior College simply because we lived two blocks away, and where I learned the news business and Ann became valedictorian and Associate of Arts with highest honors and — maybe, someday, in a dream — poised for the bachelors’ race. But four years ago it ceased to be a dream, and every day since has been a struggle toward today. Or rather next Saturday, G?d willing, when Ann dons cap and gown to walk across a stage for her diploma: a “piece of paper” made out of ink, sweat, tears and highlighter stains.
I like the symbolism of mounting and crossing the stage; when people work as hard as Ann has — and I’ve never seen anyone work harder, not ever, for anything — they should be soundly and roundly applauded. Hard work is counterintuitive for a species as easily bored as Homo sapiens, and when someone lifts herself up she elevates everyone around her.
So, no brass bands. The music would just float away — much like these words. But before they do: Congratulations, honey mine. You made it.