I’ll put the kettle on.
i did have all these clever bits lined up, but now I’m not in the mood. Plus Seth put on an Elliot Smith record. Cold-hearted bastard.
Looks like some up-and-coming kid is vying for full rights to Shitstorm 2007. You peeps with the open lines should direct dial a prayer or two. You know who you are. Note to self: check friend’s blog prior to sending email with careless subject line. I hate myself. This is duly noted.
In other news, pressing on to the trivial. Life is indifferent. It does not wait around.
As a reporter, I am used to receiving feedback – both positive and negative – about my articles. But with this whole commentary gig, there is a new element: Comments on personal appearance.
now, I have been guilty of this in the past, so if i can dish it out, i should be able to take it.
I’m used to the “OMG you look 14 lets date!!!!!” comments. However, I was somewhat taken aback by James from Whitehall, who called to tell me I was “way too brilliant for that hair cut.” He said my face needed some serious framing work, and that he “couldn’t get past” my huge forehead.
Now, granted, James is a hairdresser, (and also a huge fan of my writing!) but still. An odd comment to make. I will never have the gumption required to tell someone I couldn’t imagine a world beyond their Ginormous Forehead, but then again, hair is not my forte. And if I want to believe the part about how awesome a writer I am, I’ll also have to accept this “you are in desperate need of some bangs” mantra.
It’s like the argument that you can’t believe Jesus is both an intelligent moral guide for humanity and simultaneously a looney toon who claims to be the son of god.
Yes. It’s just like that.
I remember Bill talking about a gentleman who took issue with his sideburns.
But I digress.
These words are enough, I’ve heard, to make any child of the 60s and 70s shudder with both fear and delight.
Dad remembers the nights grandpa would send him crawling into the basement to dig out the White Mountain. He remembers cranking for what seemed like hours on end (adult time is about 25 minutes) until the final stages, when one of his brothers would have to sit on the bucket to keep it from wiggling around.
We used heavy cream, non-homogenized whole milk, sugar, vanilla and half and half.
Two hours later, a gallon and a half of homemade ice cream. It was very creamy. I got sick just from licking the sweet, sweet paddles — and then I moved to bowls. There is nothing better than clutching a belly full of steak, beer, coffee and ice cream and knowing you’d do it all over again if you could.
Land where we have such an abundance of food and luxury, that we buy hand-powered ice cream machines out of boredom.
Did you know that a salt and water brine sucks heat from whatever it touches?
Salt + ice = Dry sidewalk.
Salt + ice = Frozen sweet milk.
Blows my effing mind.
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