Friday, June 06, 2008

Lunacy

You know ...

I've encountered this Mark Morford guy once or twice before, and his writing engenders the suspicion that he's really a right-winger doing parodies of left-wing lunacy, because no one could really be this ... this ... well, see for yourselves.

Via Dyspeptic Mutterings.

Addendum : Then there's this marvellous bit from Jesse Jackson, Jr.; via Sullivan.

Silly List

Silly list

Nicknames we have here at the Dark Speech family for various items around the kitchen:

anglais moo-fan That's an English muffin, as you all may have guessed.

chester plate Any ordinary run-of-the-mill plate. The nickname is inspired by the late '70s series Soap, in which a character named Chester Tate emerges from amnesia upon seeing a plate. Or hearing the word "plate." Or something like that. He gets his name partially right at a first go.

eeffoc Coffee.

ee-chay coo-bay Ice cube. Not pig latin! An application of the Italian rules of pronunciation to these two English words.

canine paper A relative's superb malaprop for "cayenne pepper."

toe-ast Toast. Pronouncing the "oa" like the "oa" in "Croat."


Does anyone else have silly nicknames for things, not necessarily kitchen items or foodstuffs, maybe things around the house, or the workplace? Or are we the only goofballs in the entire Anglosphere?

Reid Buckley

From yesterday's "Morning Joe" on MSNBC

Reid Buckley on his family, esp. his famous brother, the late William F. Buckley, Jr.

I'm with Scarborough. Hard to see the family resemblance. (Ha!)


Umbrella

Please share my umbrella

Raining in these parts for the third straight day. Let joy be unconfined.

Tomorrow, the extremely hot weather that some of you have already seen will finally arrive in New England. Huzzah.

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Dickens' chair

Dickens' chair

Auctioned off for $850K.

The not-so-comfy chair from which I blogged during the years 2002-2003 was left on a curb when I moved from the metropolis. I know that my millions upon millions of readers will be disappointed to hear that.

Ha!

Weird dream

Weird dream

Dreamed I was teaching Whoopi Goldberg how to pray the rosary.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

Iconic

Pet peeve, cont'd

All right, this is just too much. I recently heard someone speak of "the iconic Pringles can."

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Here's a meme

I haven't been tagged, but ...

... here's a meme. Anyone who wants to play, go right ahead!

What time is your alarm clock set to? 7:00 am.

What is the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? The face.

Do you think people talk about you behind your back? Probably. I thank Heaven I don't know what they say!

What movie do you know every line to? None. But I think I come close with The Breakfast Club and Young Frankenstein.

What is your favorite movie? Oh, I don't know. Arthur? Forrest Gump? 84 Charing Cross Road? The two mentioned as a response to the previous question?

Is anyone in love with you? Not that I know of.

Do you sleep on your side, stomach or back? Side.

Who was the last person to make you mad? A doctor.

Are you a lover or a fighter? Certainly not a fighter, but how much of a lover is anyone's guess.

Are you a morning or evening person? I'm a noon person.

Are you a cuddler? Once upon a time, perhaps, I was ...

Are you a perfectionist? Hardly. Well, about minor things, I can be vexingly persnickety.

Have you ever written a poem? :-)

Do you have more guy or girl friends? Used to be girl, now it's about equal.

How many tickets have you gotten? I avoid driving like the plague; so, none.

Piercings? Never!

Do you have a tattoo? No.

Are you patient? Not often.

Do you miss anyone right now? Too busy blogging to think about it.

Tea or coffee? Coffee (until 10 am; after that, chocolate milk).

Regularly burn incense? Not even sporadically.

Ever been in love? Once, and perhaps more than once.

Best room for a fireplace? Not where I live!

What do you do when you’re sad or upset? Mope? Pace?

Afraid of heights? Extremely!

Can you change the oil in your car? Don't have a car.

Favorite flower? Don't have one.

Favorite hangout? Harvard Square.

Middle name? Edward (confirmation name, Anthony).

Most romantic sounding language? (tie) French; Dante's Italian.

Ever been overseas? Nope.


(First spotted here; also found here.)

55 Maxims

55 Maxims for Christian Living

from the Orthodox priest Fr Thomas Hopko.

Spotted at a blog I haven't visited in aeons: Notes From a Hillside Farm.

Icon? Ick.

Pet peeve

This, a recent headline from Yahoo!:

Fire destroys iconic set from 'Back to the Future'

Is it just me or is the word "icon" (here, as an adjective) just a mite debased, overused, misused, etc.?

Reminds me of the time I heard Mariah Carey described as "a supernatural force."

Countee Cullen

To John Keats, Poet, At Spring Time
by Countee Cullen (1903-46)


(For Carl Van Vechten)

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats
My last year's song and next year's bliss.
I know, in spite of all men say
Of Beauty, you have felt her most.
Yea, even in your grave her way
Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost,
Spring never was so fair and dear
As Beauty makes her seem this year.

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats,
I am as helpless in the toil
Of Spring as any lamb that bleats
To feel the solid earth recoil
Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats
Her tocsin call to those who love her,
And lo! the dogwood petals cover
Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek
White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover
About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek,
While white and purple lilacs muster
A strength that bears them to a cluster
Of color and odor; for her sake
All things that slept are now awake.

And you and I, shall we lie still,
John Keats, while Beauty summons us?
Somehow I feel your sensitive will
Is pulsing up some tremulous
Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves
Grow music as they grow, since your
Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves
For life that opens death's dark door.
Though dust, your fingers still can push
The Vision Splendid to a birth,
Though now they work as grass in the hush
Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.

"John Keats is dead," they say, but I
Who hear your full insistent cry
In bud and blossom, leaf and tree,
Know John Keats still writes poetry.
And while my head is earthward bowed
To read new life sprung from your shroud,
Folks seeing me must think it strange
That merely spring should so derange
My mind. They do not know that you,
John Keats, keep revel with me, too.