PRETZEL LOGIC
Now this is just mean.
I was just taking a peek at my own blog to see who's sponsoring me lately - to my amusement recently, it was for quite some time a resort in Jackson Hole, the town that is ultimately to blame for my entire blogging career and much else besides (it is my birthplace), but I see today that it has changed.
Some really dumb antiwar protesters (and bear in mind, I do not think those two terms together are inherently redundant, at least not all of the time; I have just chosen to write mostly about the protesters who are dumb because they are more amusing, and I blog to amuse much more than to enlighten or irritate) are supporting me. But what they're advocating is even meaner than puking on the steps for someone to clean up or beating the hell out of some gal's SUV.
Pretzels for Peace.
Send pretzels to the White House.
I get it, I get it. I remember when GWB choked on a pretzel a while back, and yes, I guess I see where it's funny. But I still file this under unconstructive and dumb, as well as mean, on the order (though of course not the magnitude) of sending a fifth of Jack Daniels to someone who was diagnosised with cirhossis or something.
Wonder if the Secret Service knows?
Well, well... they certainly didn't hear it from me! Honest!
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
THANK GOD ALMIGHTY... OR SOMETHING!
Oh my dear readers, I've been trying these last few days to come up with the right way to break the news to you, and finally, subscribing as I do to the notion that it's better to rip the band-aid off in one swift ouch of a motion rather than peel it back slowly and agonizingly so that one feels the rip of each individual hair from its follicle, I'm just gonna tell ya!
No, I'm not going to discontinue this page. Heavens no! But the content is going to change some. Probably for the juicier and the better overall.
That's because as of last Thursday I am a HOBO!
That's right, HOBO.
Possibly because of this here web page and other daunting personal problems of my own, like my complete inability to keep a desk neat and purty without assistance, possibly for reasons I can't even imagine and really don't want to waste the brain space trying, they just don't want me to be a chamber chick anymore.
So, I must fall back on my own personal resources to keep Molly the Collie of Folly in dog food and a roof over my library.
No, I don't know for sure yet if staying in Saratoga is an option, though it is my dearest wish. I live here for a reason, and it sure isn't for the lucre, and I have commitments to keep. Like two years or so yet on my term as a town council member, like the community center we've yet to build, like being the Savant of the Sewer, like holding down the floorboards on the porch of the Hotel Wolf. And I'm going to try.
I'm harrassing every publication whom I even think might be interested in featuring some form (possibly a bit less, ah, trenchant) of Content By Kate (if you know of one, suggest me! Pick me!). I'm wandering around town looking at part-time work. I'm probably going to be a substitute teacher for a while.
And I'm enjoying the freedom, the paradisacal slackerdom I've never allowed myself to enjoy before. As is the Anthropologist Formerly Known As The Minister Of Fun (AFKATMOF) who was strongly encouraged to fall on his own dear personal sword within 24 hours of my own receipt of the invitation to do so. We sat at his house on Friday (a funky little shack that makes the Unabomber Cabin look like a... well, words fail me. Suffice it to say that his house is in much the same general condition of mine, but is slightly larger and somewhat cheaper. We're friends for a reason, dear readers) and toasted our unexpected good fortune as we gleefully listed off all of the monkeys that are no longer on our backs, all of the pressing issues and deadlines and other crap that is no longer our problem, singly or together.
It was pretty fun.
Only a little bit scary. At odd moments. But we're both young and brilliant and completely unencumbered (I consider the Collie of Folly a partner rather than a dependent; at least she's a good remedy for writer's block) and not afraid of living like Spartans. We love the Spartans. We actually know their lifestyles in intimate detail. We even know the names of the kings who reigned before Leonidas (Cleonymus, if anyone cares). But we probably won't be declaring war on Athens anytime soon. We'll be too busy fishing. And floating the river.
The options that lay before each of us are truly staggering, now that almost the last claims on our loyalties have been rendered farcical. The hard part is choosing.
I even sat for a while this morning and thought about moseying over to our local urn-and-boomerang manufacturing plant and seeing if they'd want my help from time to time. I got an A+ in wood shop once upon a time, am not afraid of sharp metal objects or of computers, and am terribly, terribly fond of the smell of sawdust. Plus the idea has appeal in other ways.
No one is likely to question my motivations while I am making a boomerang.
No one is going to be trying to sniff out my agenda in making boomerangs.
It is highly unlikely that one person will start raising holy hell because I am making someone else's boomerang first.
The possibilities that I shall be hilariously misquoted in the newspaper while making boomerangs is quite remote.
I shall probably not be required to constantly explain, while making boomerangs, that I have no control over when the state highway department decides to open Snowy Range Road for the season.
The political implications of my boomerang making would not be scandalously discussed, in hushed tones, over cheap cocktails and cheaper cigars by people who don't even know what a boomerang is.
I would not be required to tell anyone what I'm thinking about while I make boomerangs.
Nor would I be likely to be accused of imaginary personal slights to people I haven't seen in six months while making boomerangs.
Somebody stop me, I've got myself half talked into this!
No, not really. Don't be silly, dear readers. Just another temporary case of YHBPsychosis. Still giddy with freedom and possibility and the notion that my time is my own. Mostly.
Let's see... it's 1 p.m. and once I click "publish" everything on my to-do list will be completed for the day. I think I'll have a glass of wine with MODPM.
Hope your day is as happy and productive.
P.S. Please ignore the banner ads currently sponsoring this page. Stupid protesters. I have no control over whose banner ads get placed on this page - something I only gain if I start paying for hosting, which is doubly not an option now. But I am not opposed to our action in Iraq, and do not encourage anyone to give money to the loonies who are, no matter how stylish the clothing they're offering.
Oh my dear readers, I've been trying these last few days to come up with the right way to break the news to you, and finally, subscribing as I do to the notion that it's better to rip the band-aid off in one swift ouch of a motion rather than peel it back slowly and agonizingly so that one feels the rip of each individual hair from its follicle, I'm just gonna tell ya!
No, I'm not going to discontinue this page. Heavens no! But the content is going to change some. Probably for the juicier and the better overall.
That's because as of last Thursday I am a HOBO!
That's right, HOBO.
Possibly because of this here web page and other daunting personal problems of my own, like my complete inability to keep a desk neat and purty without assistance, possibly for reasons I can't even imagine and really don't want to waste the brain space trying, they just don't want me to be a chamber chick anymore.
So, I must fall back on my own personal resources to keep Molly the Collie of Folly in dog food and a roof over my library.
No, I don't know for sure yet if staying in Saratoga is an option, though it is my dearest wish. I live here for a reason, and it sure isn't for the lucre, and I have commitments to keep. Like two years or so yet on my term as a town council member, like the community center we've yet to build, like being the Savant of the Sewer, like holding down the floorboards on the porch of the Hotel Wolf. And I'm going to try.
I'm harrassing every publication whom I even think might be interested in featuring some form (possibly a bit less, ah, trenchant) of Content By Kate (if you know of one, suggest me! Pick me!). I'm wandering around town looking at part-time work. I'm probably going to be a substitute teacher for a while.
And I'm enjoying the freedom, the paradisacal slackerdom I've never allowed myself to enjoy before. As is the Anthropologist Formerly Known As The Minister Of Fun (AFKATMOF) who was strongly encouraged to fall on his own dear personal sword within 24 hours of my own receipt of the invitation to do so. We sat at his house on Friday (a funky little shack that makes the Unabomber Cabin look like a... well, words fail me. Suffice it to say that his house is in much the same general condition of mine, but is slightly larger and somewhat cheaper. We're friends for a reason, dear readers) and toasted our unexpected good fortune as we gleefully listed off all of the monkeys that are no longer on our backs, all of the pressing issues and deadlines and other crap that is no longer our problem, singly or together.
It was pretty fun.
Only a little bit scary. At odd moments. But we're both young and brilliant and completely unencumbered (I consider the Collie of Folly a partner rather than a dependent; at least she's a good remedy for writer's block) and not afraid of living like Spartans. We love the Spartans. We actually know their lifestyles in intimate detail. We even know the names of the kings who reigned before Leonidas (Cleonymus, if anyone cares). But we probably won't be declaring war on Athens anytime soon. We'll be too busy fishing. And floating the river.
The options that lay before each of us are truly staggering, now that almost the last claims on our loyalties have been rendered farcical. The hard part is choosing.
I even sat for a while this morning and thought about moseying over to our local urn-and-boomerang manufacturing plant and seeing if they'd want my help from time to time. I got an A+ in wood shop once upon a time, am not afraid of sharp metal objects or of computers, and am terribly, terribly fond of the smell of sawdust. Plus the idea has appeal in other ways.
No one is likely to question my motivations while I am making a boomerang.
No one is going to be trying to sniff out my agenda in making boomerangs.
It is highly unlikely that one person will start raising holy hell because I am making someone else's boomerang first.
The possibilities that I shall be hilariously misquoted in the newspaper while making boomerangs is quite remote.
I shall probably not be required to constantly explain, while making boomerangs, that I have no control over when the state highway department decides to open Snowy Range Road for the season.
The political implications of my boomerang making would not be scandalously discussed, in hushed tones, over cheap cocktails and cheaper cigars by people who don't even know what a boomerang is.
I would not be required to tell anyone what I'm thinking about while I make boomerangs.
Nor would I be likely to be accused of imaginary personal slights to people I haven't seen in six months while making boomerangs.
Somebody stop me, I've got myself half talked into this!
No, not really. Don't be silly, dear readers. Just another temporary case of YHBPsychosis. Still giddy with freedom and possibility and the notion that my time is my own. Mostly.
Let's see... it's 1 p.m. and once I click "publish" everything on my to-do list will be completed for the day. I think I'll have a glass of wine with MODPM.
Hope your day is as happy and productive.
P.S. Please ignore the banner ads currently sponsoring this page. Stupid protesters. I have no control over whose banner ads get placed on this page - something I only gain if I start paying for hosting, which is doubly not an option now. But I am not opposed to our action in Iraq, and do not encourage anyone to give money to the loonies who are, no matter how stylish the clothing they're offering.
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