_____ .__ .__ / _ \ | | | | ____ ________________ / /_\ \| | | | _/ __ \ / ___\_ __ \__ \ / | \ |_| |_\ ___// /_/ > | \// __ \_ \____|__ /____/____/\___ >___ /|__| (____ / \/ \/_____/ \/ __________.__ __ __ \______ \__|__ __ _____/ |__/ |_ | _/ \ \/ // __ \ __\ __\ | | \ |\ /\ ___/| | | | |____|_ /__| \_/ \___ >__| |__| \/ \/ _________.__ / _____/| | ____ _____ _____ ____ \_____ \ | | / _ \ / \\__ \ / \ / \| |_( <_> ) Y Y \/ __ \| | \ /_______ /|____/\____/|__|_| (____ /___| / \/ \/ \/ \/
because I found this amusing
I am having trouble marshalling my thoughts and I’m having a hard time telling my physical from my emotional sensations.
I don’t want to leave the house, but we’re going to go shopping.
I don’t want to make someone else sick. The winnowing fan hasn’t come close yet and I don’t want it to. I want to walk a golden path through this because I deserve it. I want to catch it to burn off my sins. I want to catch it to spare ones that I love, as if the virus knows that kind of math.
The math of dreams and denial; the math of a sick thought burning a furrow through my nerves.
I need sugar, and flour, and toilet paper, and I don’t know what we’re going to find at the store.
8:23 am – we shopped during the old people’s hour, and it was okay, but there is no sugar, no flour and no toilet paper.
from the Nib today…. this
John Prine’s dying of COVID-19 goddamnit
how does it make me feel?
That I’ve already had the virus. Since I don’t know if I’m still shedding, I’m staying indoors anyway. I do feel physically better than I did last week in almost every way, although psychologically…. I mean people looking at Hitler couldn’t believe him, because he was so outside the norm of politicians, and now I’m pretty much the same with the Orange Twitler. My disbelief keeps hanging me up. I want to wake up. There is no waking up. There is only living through this.
Nathan Vincent’s ‘Manly Doilies’ (there are others, have fun)
Helen Branswell, one of my twitter gurus since Ebola (she’s Canadian, makes sense, lives in Boston, good science writer) has a thing or two to say.
I hope that the health care workers get more PPE soon.
I have a horrible horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, that this time next year most of the disabled people I follow on twitter will be dead and I’m pre-crazy with grief about it because they’ve taught me so much and I’ve only made donations to a couple of them.
I did donate to anti COVID efforts on the DTES yesterday.
In other news, snitch-taggery rhymes with douche-baggery.
England is changing who is being assigned as cause of death coronavirus on the basis of three of the flimsiest reasons
my email of today to some fuckwit at Kent State U whose name I shall redact. It is a variation on the modern standard: Were you FUCKING HIGH??
Are YOU the dean who sent out an email this week…..
‘Twas thirty-nine years ago this summer, that I first laid eyes upon the comic masterwork, ‘Green Tits and Fur’, a adult-oriented Suess rip off set at a furry convention. I thought it was hilarious and have since realized it was arguably exploitative and totes appropriative.
Better arts in the now soothe (in sooth!) the sting of not-that-great arts when you were young and impressionable. If you’re lucky you got older and stayed impressionable. I know I have. It’s what the ADD will do to you.
I think I’ve talked before about mOm and pOp and brO as being my way of customizing my own family into English. I like the visual pop of the words. I find it amusing —–I found some evidence today that the design of a piece of my childhood might have had something with pOp’s moniker as in looooook belowwwwww. But as I was looking at them again today, and why not, my thought processes have galumph and will travel, I thought how Jeff and I were inside the ring of being cared for, so the m’s in mOm are hands, like one hand out for each of the kids or caring for them. And the p’s in pOp are arms. Also guns. Pew pew. Facing forward. mOm is books. When you look at the m’s can you see books open, being read, the curve of the pages in the m’s. And brO is for the solid unassuming wholeness that Jeff is. brO is a goofy looking word, and he is goofy, though that’s hardly his distinguishing characteristic. That O is the emblem and stamp and sigil and symbol and visual hug that says you can say bruh or brah or bro or mah brother but this is my brO there are many brOs but this one is mine and I just wanted to make that entirely clear.
As for the goofy, I have recent evidence. They closed the playground equipment at the end of the street; Jeff makes his feelings known. Isn’t it a handsome hoodie she hinted hintingly with lollopping Monty Python eyebrows.
‘Black people in horror’ mini posters. No Duane Jones (Night of the Living Dead lead) tho.
It’s from Gaiman’s Sandman
A lovely time filking yestreen at Tom and Peggy’s, Cindy also in attendance. I got to sing soprano for most of the evening, which is fine if I’m not singing loud.
I hope everybody has a happy pride day! or not.
I light a candle for pOp, and he knows why. You have a visit from Jeff to look forward to, and once he’s back I’ll come out and see you.
Got a call back from an employer NOT A FRICKIN AGENCY. I have to wait another week.
Saw, and loved, Edge of Tomorrow (stupid name, good movie though; it’s Starship Troopers meets Groundhog Day.)
Jeff and I have been permanently ruined by A Pervert’s Guide to Ideology. Mr. Nosepuller told us to pay attention to the recreation of the couple, and now it’s in every single thing we watch.
Made wordcount yesterday and practiced.
I very much enjoyed this cartoon. SFW.
Oh my. There be lots of crazy for you this am.
This is a very special kind of Canadian crazy.
Ya gotta be effin kidding me. Lady Liberty is a minion of Satan?
Star Wars Crafts? Ok,
Put your hand over your crotch – gently. Now open this link.
A life of infrequent contact with the police is not likely in the cards for this gent.
funny how comics can so easily speak to the very heart of life’s questions
1. Paul and kids over to watch latest True Blood. Since I knew they were coming I went to Choices and got delicious om-nom-noms for them, like fresh bread and Dijon turkey and Avalon chocolate milk, which still comes in a glass bottle and is the best commercial chocolate milk in the known universe. Even Paul had some and he stopped drinking cow’s milk years ago. Damn, it’s fine! Also edamame salad and fresh veg.
2. Leo and Linda coming tonight…. can’t wait for them to meet kitties.
3. Jeff biked to and from work yesterday… go Jeff. The last three 3 k involve about three hundred feet of elevation, so he was rather warm by the time he got back. I took one look at him and asked him if he wanted some water.
4. At church meeting last night (Nominating committee, my house) we had fun and got shiz done. I was so happy to see everybody. Now I have more work to do, even though an item came off my list!
5. I’ll be doing a bed and breakfast thing in Bellingham in September but I don’t know which weekend. I’ll be taking Katie for some CBS. (Cross border shopping). Clothing for women my size is more easily obtained Stateside.
6. I’m helping train somebody at work, and as a consequence my house-fly strength attention span is even MORE truncated. I’d like to thank her family for raising somebody so smart. And she takes kick boxing classes, too.
7. Keith was too – I don’t know – to check flickr for pictures of Animé Evolution, and when he said he didn’t know where pictures would be, I said, “You’re daft, check the flickrstream.” Gosh all whacky, am I the only person in the world who knows how to use the internet, grump grump. And there he was, in his costume. Now I go looking for it and I can’t find it, but suffice it to say Keith made a GREAT Dr. McNinja. Grandparents are warmly encouraged to apply to him directly for photographs.
8. Dropped by her workplace to see Lady Miss Banjola and inspect her tummy. Yup, she’s knocked up. She’s also artistically pale but I think she looks great.
9. The spicy Thai beef salad yesterday was unbelievably yummy, but the transit time of 8 hours was accompanied by the burnination of a lifetime. I can no longer eat hot peppers, unless I want multiple lashings of discomfort and abrupt departures from whatever conversation I’m engaged in at the time to flee for the house of ease. It was worth it, but only just. Ky can cook.
There’s more but I gotta go.
Ah, Corey… you’re in the Scott Pilgrim Comic!