“A classic is a book that one cannot read for the first time.”

The swift-footed route ends in Homerathon; but that’s just the first book of An Iliad.

Feeling warm, inside.

Happiness is a multisensory expression.

“...Just dance, gonna be okay...”

News Feed : “on Washington Post Social Media” :: Fortune Cookies : “in bed”

The extension fairy left a quarter under my pillow.  (Q1)

The gyroscopic cycle between culture and counter will ultimately, like washing machine and dryer, end in nihilism.  Not all breaks are clean.

Wordplay is my trashtalk.

Ides of March suffers from telling a famillar story oversimply.  While unfamiliar with the Howard Dean-based source “Farragut North”, the Shakespearean parallels are intriguing enough, for their divergences.  Brutus does not suffer any nobility in betraying Caesar; Cassius no conspirator; Antony is stabbed not spared.  Instead of tragic collapse, Rome shuffles onward.  Like perhaps Gosford Park, the film will be nominated and forgotten within a year.

Racing for cures, matching fundraising, money culled from the taxed and extorted in order to fund efforts to provide further medical benefits to a hypochondriacally overinsured plutocratic elite, of a society which chooses to pour out wealth, ironically exhausting their gold in an attempt to transmute lead into it, all in order to chase the alchemy of immortality.  For the ultimate irony is that this society is so incompetent at economic evaluation that it fails at recognizing that it already has found a cure for cancer.  Yet instead of stopping smoking, people would rather opt to pay pounds of a foot-stompingly presumably cure rather than a fraction of known prevention.  Even when most sufferers will not even benefit from their suffering; they will have to repurchase a presumably discovered cure should it even be discovered.  Like the Northwest Passage, future historians will laugh at our folly.

And yet, maybe I am wrong.

You will be told if and when you are awkward; until then, put away your prism.

Okay.  I’m going to make a pact with you right now.  We both need to change our voicemails to not the automated one.  Because I’ve been meaning to do it forever, and I imagine you have been too.  And I just remembered, hearing yours, that it’s something I need to do.  So in the case that that’s your situation also, remember to change your voicemail. 

I’m going to miss not having this in my pocket. 

Why in English does it matter to distinguish between whether you’re coming or leaving.  You know?  There are languages that don’t do that.  Ciao, I think- oh maybe you just say that when you’re leaving.  Aloha you say both ways, shalom you say, you know, in greeting and in leaving.  Why, in English, is it so important whether you’re beginning a conversation or ending one?  Um.  Which leads me to wonder, since we both are good writers but can’t really, like, believe that in ourselves or the world, and we’re both good editors, which we kind of know- why don’t we ever write a book, together.  Just an idea.  Um.  We also have similar interests.  Um.  Anyway.  I am glad you didn’t pick up, because it means you’re asleep and I know you needed to sleep.  So I hope you are sleeping well and I will talk to you later.  Bye.

Prism is wrong, I think. More like, awkward-co​lored cellophane​.

Happy makeup palindrome day because we missed the real one on 11/02/2011.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeehw

If I cared about twitter, I’d be using #notanonionarticle.

The hashtag is the idea that you could put the title at the end of the story.

“A ship is safe in its harbor, but that's not what ships are for."

Foulweather friends, guidance.

In one year, too late, I fear the country unravels rather than elegantly the Gordian knot.

Disappointed in Reuters.  For any quotation at all from Netanyahu in response would have been delicious.

Don’t make too much light of it.  (Can’t stand the blinding sight.)

The plural of triceratops is hexaceratops.

No iPad Touching.

Emotional extortion: skip the kneecap, go straight for the guilt and force it back until there's a crack.

A corresponding trope for archery away from being able to reimagine Robin Hood into current times.

Tie Tuesdays.

"Cool, where do you go?  There's a place on Waukeegan that's good."
I've just gathered mine from all over.  A couple leftovers my father didn't want, that kind of thing.
<mutual confusion>
We're not talking about the same thing, are we.
"Even watching you put on a tie, I assumed you were talking about Thai food."

Burning bright in dark places.  Next year will be better, if not worse.

Singled in the SI! And having been a while since undeservedly overlookeds:

"301 Dalmatians": What's black and white, and red all over.
"Titanic and Norah's Infinite Playlist": And the band played on.
"Cloverfield of Dreams": If you build it, he will come destroy the New York Yankees.
"Peter Pan's Labyrinth": How the Boys got Lost.
"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Closer": Four self-destructive lovers blame all of their problems on 9/11.
"Thank You for Smoking Kong": The biggest lie ever told.
"Pink Floyd--The Wall-E": A cute robot breaks down humanity's drug-induced hallucinations.

How much of Dad yelling at the cable customer support do you think is because he thinks the phone rep is responsible, and how much do you think is because it makes Dad feel better to yell?
 
Beaten to the punch.

“Some will win, some will lose...”

There are 162 games in a baseball season. 5 in a division championship, 7 for the league. 9 innings in a game, 3 outs in an inning.   Among all of which the ultimate outcome is weighted.

“...It goes on and on and on and on...”

Resilience is a virtue, that ability to hold on until fortunes, as quickly as they might have succumbed, are righted.

“...People / Living just to find emotion / Hiding somewhere in the night...”

Game 7, 7:05p.
Go Cards.

“...Don't stop believing...”

Xenophobes of the world, unite.  You have nothing to lose but your hackles.

“She has poor taste in men.”
But a healthy appetite.

There's a reason the Law of Attraction isn't the Law of Revulsion.  What six things can one do without.

“Knock, knock...”

Call maintenance, hold the line, roger the SOS, round up the posse, coordinate assistance, return to home field, be a friendly face, take alternate routes, support a partner, wellwish the unknown birthday girl.

When locked in, open your own door.

“...I feel like I’m knocking on heaven’s door...”

Slight gnocchi incident aside, a successful exploration into variations on the host/guest narrative.  Inside and outside, a little warmer.

Our problem is not where, but when.

Pot calling the kettle, kettle not calling back.