Bracing For Tooshoomes With Waves Of Lemon

It's a scientific fact that I am sure we all know by now: California has some of the harshest weather on the planet. Yesterday was a slap in the face reminder. It was cold. And windy. The apocalyptic 20 degree temperature drop from one day to the next called for full blizzard mode to be strictly enforced. What the hell happened anyway? It was clear and 78 degrees the day before and now the clouds are knitted over the sun, and I am having to dig out a sweater and close my window?! What in the French toast is going on?! If this atmospheric disaster could come on so quickly, what else could be on the horizon?!

Tooshoome* - that's what. Don't believe me? The news article is right here. Advisory slapped on the state of California. Things had a slim to unlikely chance of getting ugly and I was bracing for it. I missed a watery grave by only miles of Pacific Ocean people! Miles.

Needless to say, after such a close call, I needed a meal to thaw me out and sooth my soul. Soup was the only the way to go.

I made this and let the sunshine come on in.

Egg-Lemon Soup
Adapted from Food Network online recipes

1/2 cup Pastina or Orzo
6 cups low sodium chicken broth
olive oil
1 small yellow onion
6 tablespoons of lemon juice
2 eggs (and two additional yolks)
zest of one lemon (optional)
cooked, shredded chicken (optional)


In pot, warm olive oil and saute chopped onion over medium heat until soft, but now brown . Add chicken broth, half the lemon juice, Pastina or Orzo, and let cook - stirring occasionally. Beat 2 eggs, 2 yolks and 3 tablespoons lemon juice; whisk in a little hot broth, then stir the mixture into the soup. Cook over low heat until thick. Salt and pepper to taste.

This is stunt soup that I had to borrow because I couldn't find my camera last night and I know how you people are about the whole "eating first with the eyes" thing. I can assure mine looked this mmm, mmm good as well.

Notes (because I can never leave well enough alone): I think there is plenty of latitudes to be taken with the lemony goodness for this recipe. Personally, I can't really get enough of lemon, so I ended up adding almost twice what the recipe called for and thought is was about right. I also made the addition to the recipe of the zest and I added that when I threw in the Orzo. If you are not looking for huge lemony flavor, I would simply leave it out.

Don't have any small pasta on hand? Rice would work just as well.

I added some cooked chicken to make it heartier, but the soup itself thickens quite nicely on it's own from the egg and makes for a fairly substantial meal, so go with your preference on adding meat.

Also, I am a fan of floating in vegetables to these sorts of dishes. I diced up some green beans for a mild crunch and cooked them for the last few minutes I had the soup on the heat. I think something like spinach or kale would have been perfect in there too.

The sun is out, the wind has died down, and the Tooshoome advisory lifted. It's going to be a good day. I fixed everything with one fabulous bowl of soup.


*I am aware of the lesser known spelling for Tooshoome of "Tsunami" but after you have spent a tense night in 2005 under warning on the island of Oahu with your family, and your cousin selflessly volunteers to spend the night on the beach promising, "I'll wait here and if I see anything I will just yell Tooshoome! Tooshoome! so you guys can save yourselves", you just don't go back.

Mr. Freeland, Can I Get Extra Credit For Pulling This Number Out Of My Ass?

From NBC Bayarea.com

Man Sues Bank of America for $1.7 Billion Trillion
Demands an extra $200,164,000 for "miscellaneous fees"
By EDWARD J. CARR


One can only imagine Dalton Chiscolm brought his pinkie finger to his mouth when he said he was suing Bank of America for "1,784 billion, trillion dollars."

Infuriated with Bank of America’s customer service, Dalton Chiscolm decided to do what every other red-blooded American in his situation would do: He sued them.

How much did he sue them for?

Try $1,784 billion trillion, according to Reuters. That’s the number 1,784 followed by 18 zeros. It’s also more money than the world’s 2008 gross domestic product, which was comprised of a measly $60 trillion (that’s six followed by 13 zeroes). To top it off, he also wants an additional $200,164,000 for "miscellaneous fees."

Chiscolm decided he was entitled to the money after he received inconsistent information regarding his bank accounts from “a Spanish woman” during numerous calls to Bank of America’s headquarters in New York City.


District Judge Denny Chin gave his two cents in a written order released Sept. 24.

“The claim is incomprehensible,” he wrote.

Chin previously had the honor of sentencing Ponzi-schemer Bernie Madoff to 150 years in prison.

Chin gave Chiscolm until Oct. 23 to explain why his case shouldn’t be dismissed.

Honestly folks, I am really not planning to rip on Mr. Chiscolm for this silliness. Why you ask? Well, let's start with coming up with that number. 1.7 Billion Trillion. At first, you're thinking it's a fake. The numerical equivalent to those words that just miss the dictionary target like Fabuloso, Romantical, and Weinis. But it's not. Apparently when you put 18 zeros behind something it's because that shit is real - and coming for ya!

Bank of America is a deserving target too. I can vouch for this after 15+ years of their tyranny. They suck. Officially.

They suck so bad there is already a graphic out there to prove it!

I didn't know that Spanish women were the diabolical force behind the B of A reign of terror, but as his claim states, they are pretty inconsistent. Every ATM has a different posting deadline so if you don't check each machine, your deposit may not post the same business day. They also have more fees for their craptacular service than Carter's got liver pills*, and those seem to change quite a bit. They have shaken me down $4.95 at a time for a while now.

I just hope that when the case is settled and Mr. Chiscolm gets his 1.7 Billion Trillion Babillion that he throws a giant ice cream party or buys me a fur coat.


*Even though I am not 107, I have used the Carter's got liver pills saying for years. And I too thought it was some little know fact about the ex president Jimmy Carter. Desultor cleared up that little mystery, but I am not sure how I feel about it - was really attached to Jimmy as an integral part of the pep behind the saying.

Bummer I Can't Get A Boner

I have Boner Envy. I think it started a couple of years ago when I was relating to my cousin how good looking the new dentist was in the dental group where I get my cleanings. When I told her he was much too handsome for me to sit comfortably while he put his fingers in my mouth, she responded, "Why? Were you having trouble hiding your boner?" We both totally cracked up at this, but in that moment I felt a slight tug, not in my pants, but my heart. It was disappointment that boners don't apply to me.

Now let's not misunderstand each other: I am not talking Penis Envy here. I love Miss Puss and she loves me. We're good.

There is just something I love about the comedy of a boner. I suppose it's possibly not all that funny to those who get actual boners, but I feel cheated out of comic potential by being left out of the boner loop.

So now I try to force my way in to the club from time to time. The other day I interrupted my brother on the phone to declare "I've got a boner" and started laughing. All I got on the other end was a few seconds of silence followed by "Sick - shut up Daniella"

I tried it again with a male friend and got a big laugh -- Uh-oh! Now my behavior has just been positively reinforced -- look out!

Oh...wait wait, hang on a second..........oh...oh - yep.......I think I've got a boner. Buuaahahahaha! Come on, you have to admit that's hilarious. Well at least pretty damn funny. A little funny?......Right?

Oh nice! Freakin Kim Kardashian is stealing my comedy now to try and further her celebrity!

Wanna see one of my fave boners? Click here and then click on the red shorts

Fritter

Today's Fritter is hosted by Justin's dad because he just sings to my soul. I am sure he will be making a few guest Fritters actually so that I can share more of his gems of wisdom.

Background on Justin, as related by Justin: I'm 29. I live with my 73-year-old dad. He is awesome. I just write down shit that he says

Yes he is awesome Justin, yes he is.

"I'm sitting in one of those TGI Friday's places, and everyone looks like they want to shove a shotgun in their mouth."

And because I know you are now having a raving craving for just one more...

"Your brother brought his baby over this morning. He told me it could stand. It couldn't stand for shit. Just sat there. Big let down."

Home Alone

When I was a kid, everything was very proper. I was primarily raised by my father, and God love him, he was a man of order. Would have been stellar in the military.

Everything had it's place. The house was too packed with organization to be cluttered. There was a day preordained by the universe for laundry, housecleaning, and mowing the yard. Dishes were cleaned and put away after dinner. Period.

You didn't hit the sheets without first taking a shower, and you didn't run around on Saturday mornings without your bathrobe on over your pajamas. You never went without slippers. Ever.

Beds were always made as soon as you woke. Books were packed tightly on their shelves because they're special, shirts hung in the closet with all of their collars facing the same way, and toilet lids stayed down when not in use so that they won't slam in the event of an earthquake and crack the bowl. Exclusively.

I'm not joking.

So here's the deal and I doubt anyone is going to be surprised: Now that I am an adult on my own, I have spun out in a lot of ways, and don't exactly run my household the way my father ran his.

The highlights of the mayhem and debauchery I regularly partake in over here at my Animal House are:

I haven't made my own bed in about 5 years. I occasionally smooth. I usually just delight at the disheveledness of it all as I fluff my pillow and flop into bed each night.

I still hang up my clothes in the closet, but nowhere near the perfection my father mandated is present in there these days. If I roll the door shut though, who cares?

I have books stacked up everywhere. I ran out of shelf space a long time ago.

I resist bathrobes as if wearing one would turn me into one of the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal.

This is what happened the last time I tried putting one on.

The only time you will find the toilet lid down at my house is when I have either just added bleach to the bowl, or somethin yellow and I am lettin it mellow.

I stick my fingers in everything in the fridge. My dad lives about 40 miles away and I still have yet to double dip into my own damn food without looking over my shoulder nervously as if I am about to be totally busted.

I've even tried shape shifting into a cat to get away with it!

Occasional dirty dishes overnight in the sink have yet to negatively impact my sleep or the sun's ability to rise - over here at least. Who knows, maybe my dad is plunged in to 24 hours hours of night every time I pull that shit.

So did anything my dad teach me stick? Absolutely.

Generally, I like things clean. It makes me feel calm and ordered, just how Dad feels too I bet.

I may not make the bed, but the sheets have to be clean.

I may not have a shelf space for every book but that doesn't mean they aren't like children to me, and again, one of the ways God shows his love for us.

Ooo...Ahh...so pretty.

I also still shower and I love wearing slippers - so there!

Yo Quiero Cinco Libros!

Remember what I said about free books being one of the ways God show's his love for us? I wasn't kidding, and to prove it, another giveaway is getting started at Bookfoolery and Babble.




Check it - ole? I mean, okay?!

Sympathizing With The Enemy

I hate when the doorbell rings - positively loathe it in fact. That jarring surprise of fake bell tone echoing through my front room, making the dog bark like we are under a complete enemy siege, (whatever that looks like in dog terms - gang of cats in full Transformers gear perhaps?) just irritates the hell out of me.

So imagine how fab I was feeling yesterday afternoon when the tale my novel was weaving was abruptly cut off by two (two!) rings of my doorbell before I could even walk across my front room to answer it. Yeah, good times.

I opened the door on two little boys and a woman. The woman did the talking. She explained to me through intermittent bark-fire from lil Ruthy that she was a neighbor who lived behind me, her yard in fact being the one that borders my garage and the parking spot adjacent to it where my car can be found. I guess her boys just graduated from the Annie Oakley School and managed to miss their target on the fence and put a bb through the small space between two fence boards, and straight through the back window of my car. Yeah, good times.

One boy was slightly taller and chunkier than the other one. He was the first to pipe up, throwing his comrade under the bus by volunteering, "he was shy about coming over here" as he pointed to his right. I took my gaze to his brother and said, "I would be too" as I remembered the time my brother went to bed at 4:00 in the afternoon after we lobbed an asteroid sized dirt clod into the neighbor's pool while trying to hit rats in the Cypress trees on the shared fence line. Sal thought crime and punishment found no one in bed. Surely if he skipped dinner and hid under the sheets, no one would think of him when the mud sludge at the bottom of the pool was discovered. Yeah, good times.

And so my friends, this is where my grated nerve reaction to ringing doorbells, and icy reception to random neighbors breaking my stuff, started to melt away.

Of course he was feeling shy about coming over. I didn't mean to break anything! Who knows what scary adult lives in that house. Are they going to yell at me?!

No yelling. I found myself saying stupid forgiveness-esque shit like "accidents happen" and "thank you guys for being so honest about this".

Then my two new foes and I chatted it up a bit even laughing over the irony of how impossible their wipe-out my window shot would have been if they were actually trying to get that bb through the small space between those boards.

There was good news as well. Not only did mom leave her contact information and a promise to reimburse my repair costs, she informed me that I lived on a strawberry field - or rather the concrete slab hosting my abode was laid on land that used to be strawberry fields. A little history lesson she gleaned from another neighbor who was farming these rows of berries that went all the way to the sea apparently, back in 1948. Yeah, good times.

As they started to make their way back down the front walk, eventually everyone got around to petting lil Ruthy, and agreeing that she indeed looked like a Ruth.

The forgiveness-esque shit must have still been working it's good Juju on me, because I wasn't in the least irritated to sit down at the computer and start getting quotes on replacement windows. Let's hope that extends to today's project of cleaning up all the broken window glass and taping/plasticing the hole in my car. Yeah, good times.

The Dispassionate Observer

I'm exhausted today. My overgrown Amazon of a yard really didn't care though. It still beckoned to me to get my ass out there and straighten things up before a surveyor takes some measurements out there tomorrow.

While I toiled and reflected on how I am the only person on the planet who has ever had to do a little manual labor while tired, I noticed some stuff.

I saw two dragonflies taking part in a little bit of Mile High club action. Their airborne bliss was a thing to behold. Who makes sure to keep a good look out and not fly into a tree during such things? Or is it that unlike us, they can fly into a tree without injury. How cool would that be, by the way...

These are stand-ins to protect identities. I think someone might have had a dragon at home waiting for them, if you know what I mean. Awkward.

When I had cut and filled my yard waste container, I spotted a giant spider sitting on the rim. It was black with gold stripes down it's back and had a body the size of a 25 cent gumball. I would have taken a picture of it, but once I saw it the only thought I had in my head was "mindless killing must commence!" and I grabbed a rather large rock. Sorry PETA, but I doubt you were going to help me if that damn thing had bit me and I went into anaphylactic shock and died in my yard, leaving my dog to watch me rot from the other side of the screen door. See, that in turn would be traumatizing dog cruelty, so be glad of my ninja-esque command decision to ice the giant spider.

The Ru happy that I am not dead.

Then I went out to my garage to put a few things away, and I was again reminded of the mass turd grave that has been gaining bodies along the fence line where my car is parked. This area is not part of my yard, so I don't know who is making all of the drop-offs. My guess would be that it is the same useless cat that slides down my windshield all the time, and runs across my roof at 4a.m. Good times. Anyway, as I scooped turds into a bag, the irony of this much shit getting under DS Man's radar really hit me. He sniffed out two little logs from my pooch that were in a small thicket of bushes, and had them gift wrapped on my doorstep in no time. How did he miss all of this sitting on the dirt strip out here in the open? Perhaps he was out of his gift bags and ribbon?

Stunt poo, but make it real and multiple it out by 50 logs or so, and you're smelling what I was scooping. Fucking cats.......or perhaps small hippies.....hadn't thought of that.

That was my little snippet of Nature's Majesty for today.

Still

5:34 a.m. That's over six hours, he thought as he was trying to recall what time he had gone to bed. The room was still as he laid back. The stillness had in fact taken on it's own energy. A low buzzing of sorts, as if bees inhabited the walls in order to lend a muted harmony to the silence.

He hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time in over a month, and none of them were peaceful. Each night, funerals. One after another he would arrive at, and eulogize from a pulpit to the mourners. He would almost always wake from these dreams standing on top of his covers, his neck bent and his head tilted against the ceiling as if he were listening to something from the other side.

Now under the covers, his rested body disquieted his mind.

Maybe he's gone. The thought bolted through him. The old man had been sleeping so much that the last time he visited him, he dozed right there in the middle of their conversation. This was terrifying! Always sleeping, no appetite -- how long?! And how would be ever find peace with that void? Now the thought nagged at him, maybe I slept without any funerals because he is gone.

***

The old man hummed inside from their activity. Like an eardrum, his whole body felt like thin film, reverberating with the energy of them. Was there always this much to do? This much to talk about? As they whirled around him cooking and laughing and assuming wide-legged half-stoops to shadow toddling babies on Bambi legs, he struggled to remember what was so important when he had their forever movement.

His heart remembered. The doctor said it beat too fast - twice as fast as it should. Embedded in the muscle fibers, the energy of all those memories retained. With every beat it rebirthed a piece of the past. Electrical glimpses of the mosaic pulsed through him. His heart's energy made him tired.

He was past the struggle with sleep. His days now were mostly blanketed in a groggy haze. This transition was it's own work, and sleep was the landscape at this stage of the journey.

He was not gone, though he did wonder how long his heart was going to be able to beat for two.

We Can Do More Than Remember

Capt Walsh took this photo in Ghazni, Afghanistan and shared it with us

"Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation." ~ Robert F. Kennedy

We can do more than remember.

That is what I posted as my status update today on that devil machine known as Facebook. And to tell you the truth, I was irritated and frustrated when I did it. I am sick to death of people using 9/11 as a day to just sit there and say "I remember" or "I was sad" or "We can't forget".

What is the point of remembering anyway? If you aren't going to attach anything to it, than what is the point? Without honor, and action what does remembering really accomplish?

The plaintive sentiments about how emotional you were that day strike me as a waste too. Sorry, I know I am really flying the A-hole flag today, but I just don't get it. Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with having the emotion, it just seems that as a nation we sit on our laurels with it. Slip off the hook for the next 12 months by telling ourselves, and each other, that "sad" is enough.

It's not. That's right -- I am judging you fair nation and I am saying it is absolutely not enough.

The struggle continues. Maybe it's not happening in your backyard, but it is happening. Taking place this very moment in front lines overseas, soup kitchens down the street, and individual lives across each state.

Want to honor the tragedy of September 11th 2001? Want to remember what we lost by giving? Start by looking around and reaching out.

"But I Shaved My Balls For You!"

Every once in a while I find myself in moments that are so perfectly encapsulated by the accompanying verbiage that the phrasing becomes a theme label for future situations.

Years ago I helped a friend move and she had one of those round, wicker chairs with the futon style pad inside. When we got to the front door, we realized we were going to have to tip the chair onto it's side to get it in, but that would also dump the futon pad out. In that moment, I don't remember if the sun shone a little brighter, or if the birds twatted a little more tweetier, but I do know that our minds melded and full ESPN kicked in. When she looked at me and said, "Let's just move the actual ton (as in futon) first then" I needed no further clarification. We moved in sync to grab the pad at the same time and take it in; coming back for the frame after. The actual ton. To this day, when the occasion calls for discerning one thing away from it's other parts, "the actual ton" becomes our short-hand verbiage to communicate that. Neat.

When building the OAP website, my friend Vince and I spent hours sitting shoulder to shoulder in his room working on the details. Every time he would upload something to the server, my anticipation to see the end result on the larger of the two monitors would have me looking more eager than a virgin at a whorehouse. Sometimes, he would forget to refresh the screen for me, and a new term was coined. "Dude, you forgot to hook up the doll"* was all I offered on one such occasion and Big V knew what I meant! Originally stemming from the movie Weird Science, we both remembered the scene surrounding that line and from then on, we could throw that out to each other any time a piece of information was missing in our conversation, or a step was left out when doing something together. Neat.

Another time a boyfriend decided to straddle the toilet backwards and shave his balls with his little electric trimmer. As the hairs softly floated down to the water below, he fantasized of all the attention his twig and berries were going to be on the receiving end of once he showed me his handy work.

At the unveiling, it was lost on me. It looked fine, but did nothing for my libido or attraction to him. Remember, I had not requested this manscaping in the first place, nor had I even voiced a preference for smooth berries. But hey, to each his own, right? He must have been in to the idea or he wouldn't have chosen to do it.

That is sort of where I left it and went back to my book. He had a little more trouble. As I walked away, all I heard him yelling from the end of the hall was, "But I shaved my balls for you!"

No you didn't. You shaved those bad boys for yourself. And in that comical moment, another sophistication to my vocabulary came in to being.

When I try to convince other people that something that is potentially mutually beneficial was really just selflessly done for them "But I shaved my balls for you!" always gets the job done. Neat.

I encourage you to form your own special language with the people around you. Contrary to popular belief, (and possibly decency - but don't let crap like that get in the way) ball shaving is not the limit! There is a whole world out there waiting for your linguistics. It is so much more fun than just sticking to the 100 or so words and phrases that almost all of us just doggedly wear out when describing the world around us and expressing ourselves.

So don't be afraid! Call your doctor out the next time he/she forgets to hook up the doll and rush you through that appointment. Don't let your brother ruin another Thanksgiving dinner whining about how he shaved his balls for everyone at the table, and for God's sake be there for a friend when they need you to assist when it comes to the actual ton. Neat.


* Sidenote to Big V ~ Nine months ago, "You forgot to hook up the doll" was added to Urban Dictionary! You realize what this means, right? We changed the world. For the better. In less than three years. That makes us better than most people, and don't you ever forget that.

Fritter

No one better ask me for one of my fucking kidneys. That is more giving than I think I could take! What if I fall on the one I have left, or accidentally blow it out? Whoever has my other one ain't giving it back...damn, that would suck.

What is a Fritter?!

Ms. I and The Fish

I was a complete tool in high school. I focused most of my studies in how to be an complete and utter ass.

Very few teachers were willing to put up with my malarkey, let alone have an appreciation for it.

Ms. I was one of the few who did though. She was my English teacher for two years. The great thing about Ms. I was that she was a bit of a maverick too. The way she carried herself told you this stuffy, devout, Catholic school was not going to hold back the way she swung her hips or got excited about Zeffirelli's version of Romeo and Juliet.

I had always been a reader, but it took on new meaning when she introduced pieces of literature to us. Her enthusiasm and love for what she shared, brought it to life in a way I had never experienced before.

Like a hungry mob on Free Wing Wednesday at KFC, [Don't go crazy - I don't think that really exists.] we would all sit in class and take Shakespeare line by line and pick it clean of all it's literary meat - I mean beauty.

Vocabulary lists of words like galvanize, titular, onomatopoeia, and faux pas became these fabulous new ways to talk about things, as she encouraged us to use them in fun sentences.

For over 18 years now a snippet of a poem about a fish that she introduced us to still lingers with me. In her usual way, she took us through the poem line by line and I still remember the reference to the scales of the fish being like "ancient wallpaper". I loved that description. Just couldn't get enough of it. Ancient wallpaper.

From time to time I would word search those keywords online, but I couldn't ever locate the poem. This morning I tried again, and there it was!

As I read it again after all these years, I felt like I was back in that wooden crap desk my freshman year. I could hear Ms. I at the front of the room reading aloud to us, pausing in all the right places to emphasize parts that if we missed, life just wouldn't be the same [Or maybe the planet would shift of it's axis. I can't remember which one it was now.] If I looked up, there she would be with chalk dust smudged along the leg of her pants, her expression filled with excitement for each piece of symbolism.

I loved her for all of that -- and for putting up with me.

In the spirit of Ms. I and her fabulousness.....I give you...

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

Elizabeth Bishop

This little fishy swims in my room

I think I am Going To Fritter

Update: Yesterday's post got me think about names and mascots and I think I have a duo I can run with.

I am going to Fritter, and MTV Puberty's Fart will be my mascot.

Fritter is catchy, rhymes with Twitter, and reminds me how much I love donuts. Fart reminds me that I am pulling all of this out of my ass, so let's not take oneself too serious.

Stay tuned for future Fratter!

Twogging?

I like the idea of small thoughts. Concise expressions. Condensed mental soup.

Twitter's concept appeals to me in that way. Twitter itself though....not so much. I am already a Facebook Flopsweat and if I don't rage against one of these egomaniacal web machines, then I stand for nothing my friends. That's not true, I just need to have something I can be against to feel good.

So here it is: I want to take the twitter concept to some of my blog posts. When those scathingly brilliant 140 word or less thoughts strike. I want to post some twogs? Twat once in a while?

I don't know -I think it needs a good name and a logo for me to really get the mojo going.

What do you think? Any ideas?