Members of my family invade countries, capture brutal dictators, face down suicide bombers, challenge the IRS, Christmas-shop the Beltway. Given what happened Saturday night, I suspect I'm adopted.
You ain't no kinda candy lover if you don't live for The Black. You want a great candy? Smooth, supple, grab-your-socks candy? Candy that sends your mouth to heaven, darkens your tongue, brightens your outlook and pulls out your fillings? Screw chocolate. You want black licorice, my friend. And hey--I just found The Black, the perfect, quintessential black licorice.
It's Monday night and I'm undulating like a stadium-ful of spectators doing The Wave, except they're horizontal and I'm vertical, scrabbling to stay in a massage chair doing its best to hurl me to the floor. My sudden urge to spend an hour pampering myself has granted this woman permission to dip my feet in scalding pink wax, attack my heels with pumice, nip and tuck and grind and slap and tickle things half to death...and apparently pummel my spine. This isn't the way I remember pedicures, but it certainly spices up an already varied week.
Friend of mine, out running in her neighborhood, was attacked by a pair of pitbulls. Or rather, they attacked her dog, a huge, fierce-looking beast who runs with her and may be the world's largest pussycat. The pitbulls grabbed her dog by the neck; she threw herself over the dog as a human shield, screaming. Six cars slammed to a [...]
My friend, buddy, co-president, rescuer, artist and just-all-'round good guy, Dennis McConnell, died yesterday, from the wicked disease, AKA cancer. His family sent out notice of his death in typical Dennis fashion:
The albino guy at the counter was nearly blind and almost deaf, so naturally the government put him in charge of answering the phone. They gave him a larger-than-life phone straight out of the Roaring 20s, sporting a big red light where the dial should be. Whenever someone called, the phone would emit a soft brrrrring and flash its light. He couldn't hear its ring and could barely see the light, so periodically he'd pick up the handset and shout "Hello, HELLO?" Nothing there of course, so he'd slam the handset back into its cradle, then pick up the whole phone, peering anxiously at the light. In the hour I watched him, the phone rang twice. Both times he missed. Right about then I coined a word for such things: Bureaucrass.
If you added up all my blogposts since 2003, you’d have something like 7,200 separate articles. Only about 650 are actually searchable on morganica.com right now. Tried to import the rest, but so far can’t figure out a way to do that without spamming the heck out of the 1,500 or so subscribers who asked to be notified when I [...]
My cross-street neighbor Kim strolled up the driveway yesterday to see what I was up to--Shelby and I were cleaning out the vibratory tumbler, getting ready for the next grit--and casually mentioned that the Admiral was dead. "Committed suicide," she said, and frowned at my look of surprise, "I can't believe you don't know that. How could you NOT know that--there were police cars and sirens and lights and ambulances all over." Apparently I was out that night.
This post starts with a sore toe, meanders through a lipstick-addicted cat and ends up at a very intriguing idea: Disruptive creativity. More about that later. In the meantime, I don't have gout. This is a good thing. You never realize how much toes do for you until one of them hurts abominably. Try getting up from the floor WITHOUT bending your big toe. (For the record, you balance yourself on both hands, swing your legs absolutely straightlegged until you're in a modified scissor-split, and then walk your body up on your heels. If you think that this not only looks absolutely stupid but also presents the world with an extended view of your backside, well, you're entirely right.)
"You're 5,000 miles overdue," he said reproachfully, "CherryBaby needed her tires rotated at 15,000." I puzzled over that one, since CherryBaby rotates her tires madly every time we hit the road. The ins and outs of automotive maintenance aren't really my thing--when your dad regards tinkering with cars the way everyone else regards fine Belgian chocolate, there's not much need. But the service dude seemed to think this was a terrible faux pas, so I apologized.
