This is so good . . .
that I probably already blogged it. If so . . . sorry!
From Cracked.com, The 10 Most Sexually Unappealing Craig’s List Postings.
And now we’re looking at the 15 most sexually unappealing porn titles. Faces with Braces, anyone?
D.
Gauze
In childhood, in dreams, there was always a different world, a safe place: a kid-sized door in the back of a closet leading to a toy-filled, sunlit room; a gingerbread village hidden among foothills that formerly hosted only chaparral scrub; a turn from a desolate road leading to lush grassy meadows and laughing children.
Sometimes I think that’s where our notions of heaven come from. Populate those landscapes with dead relatives and voila, there you are. You’re safe, you’re warm, you’re with people who love you.
Sometimes I wish I could pull away the gauze that keeps me from seeing it here on Earth.
D.
And this is fun why?
Okay, I’m twitting now. My handle is Azureus9, if you want to follow my twits.
Why am I doing this?
Discuss.
D.
Quick shout-out
Over at Daily Kos, Devilstower has posted “a still decidedly unpolished chapter from a book on how social conservatives wed fiscal conservatives in a process that took a century.”
Yeah, I know that quote doesn’t make it sound too interesting . . . but the bulk of the chapter concerns sisters Victoria Woodhull and Tennessee Claflin, two of the more interesting characters you’re likely to meet on this rainy Sunday morning.
D.
Getting lonely around here
Soon after I began blogging, I remember reading an author’s comments about why he had stopped blogging. It may have been Cory Doctorow, or maybe one of the other literary youngbloods. He wrote that blogging was a lot like stand-up comedy. You need to be fresh, you need new material, and eventually it gets to be rather wearying.
Well, that’s a paraphrase of something I read four years ago. I may have mangled it. It certainly captures how I feel.
I’ve settled into a new and by necessity tiring routine: I work long days five days a week (except on my day-off-without-pay), somehow manage to get most of the cooking, cleaning, and shopping done, catch up on chores on the weekend, try to answer all my emails. Since this job ain’t forever, I’m in search mode, too. It’s hard getting phone calls from potential employers or partners at 8 PM when I’m corpse-tired and not wanting to be bright and interesting and engaging. I’ve already blown off two possibilities, each time because of a bad vibe. Oh, and there was a third. Good vibe that time, bad location.
But I digress. All of this stress and fatigue has taken its toll on the blog, and correspondingly, my readership. I think a lot of people have given up on Balls and Walnuts and I can’t say I blame them. I’ve had to focus on the job and writing has become a luxury. I’m hoping the muse will rouse from her slumber once my life shifts into a more normal routine, one not involving 2.5 to 3 hours of commute time daily, but in the meantime, I feel like a dear friend is in a coma.
Something is missing and I don’t know how to get it back. I don’t know, maybe what I really need is a velvet merkin.
(more…)
27 Jennifers
Since no one commented on this bit from yesterday, I’m-a-shovin’ it down yer throats:
I really dig that song. Lyrics and more below the fold.
25 things about you
Memed thanks to Kate.
1. You just found out that Babe the Blue Ox should not have balls.
2. You’re beginning to think that “Change We Can Believe In” are the pennies Obama receives when he goes begging for Republican votes.
3. You miss Mars Bars.
Shopping
Ultimately I took my sister’s advice and bought my mom a Macy’s gift card for her birthday, but not before walking up and down the mall searching for just that right balance of glam, sequins, flowers, and froth. Shopkeepers predatory for commissions kept their eyes on me as I passed, murmuring Let me know if there’s any, Can I help, How are you to, Are you shopping for your, the pulsatile tinnitus of Madison Avenue.
The cosmetics counter women have given up. They give each other makeovers or lurk expressionless by their wares. An older woman in Fashion belts out a song just out of step with the Muzak and wants to know if I like anything I see. “It’s all too stylish,” I say, and move on, quickly. My mother doesn’t do haute couture.
The mall is empty of money. The mall is full of bored kids, dropouts and truants, Generation Huh? Only the food court is busy.
This guy on his cell phone, someone’s arguing with him about training for a marathon. “There’s no way I could train for a marathon in six months,” he says. “Even if I could, I don’t think I have the mental outlook to run.” Guy looks upwards of 400 lbs. His gut squirms out below his tee shirt, gasping for air.
As for me, I’m one of the underemployed. We’re all taking a day off per pay period to meet the budget; our supe knows how to share the pain. Like Castro’s Cuba, Karen tells me. Oh, well. I can absorb a 10% pay cut and still do well. And besides, it gives me time to do the important things, like buy my mom a gift certificate for her birthday.
D.
Your morning dose of cool
In the process of answering the question, “How ancient are squid?” Karen and I found the Tree of Life Project. This site aims to provide information (and images) on Every. Life. Form. Even questionable life forms, like viruses, which are truly bizarre things when you get right down to it.
I’m always interested in the weird stuff, so I was happy to see one good article on the Archaea and some good links on Placozoa (the guys who fight with sponges over the title of Most Primitive Animal). And oooooooh aren’t water bears so cuuuuute I jus’ wanna snuggle uppawumpums oh who’s a naughty tardigrade you are!
And now for something completely different: our latest timesink at Chez Walnut, 5 Second Movies by That Guy With The Glasses. Many sparkling nuggets here, but we particularly like The Godfather, Fargo, and Brokeback Mountain. Enjoy.
So . . . where have you been wasting your time lately?
D.
Today
Laundry laundered, shopping shopped, and dishes dished, most of a clean bright Saturday stretched out before me and I had nothing to do but sweep the floors or futz at the computer or — here’s a thought — get some sunshine. So I accused The Boy of being a Keyboard Potato and told him we were going out. When he refused, I sapped him with a heavy gel wrist-rest and dragged his limp form out to the car.