best news story of the day
Saturday, May 17, 2008
this just in
Friday, May 16, 2008
crossdressing fantasy with wife saree
What are people looking for? Why so many? Lots of these searches have wife or husband in them.
What a strange world we live in.
What are people looking for? Why so many? Lots of these searches have wife or husband in them.
What a strange world we live in.
Labels: blogging, crossdressing, google, inda
full-throttle flotsam
Alrighty then, lots of flotsam for your procrastinators today. A little something for everyone. (Maybe. I don’t know.)
I am happy to report that the incorrigible Jack has become partly corriged. He has adjusted to the electric fence and no longer wanders at will. No more crossing the creek and coming home muddy, no more chasing off the mailman, no more patrolling the alley and riling up the other dogs. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the limits. Perhaps the responsibility of patrolling so large an area weighed heavily on his burly shoulders and troubled his large noggin. His own yard is large enough. So many squirrels, so little time. And so much napping to be done. How is one dog to do it all without some limits?
Now I need an electric fence for the sofa. He is not allowed on the sofa and knows it, but at night, after we go to bed, he helps himself. At the suggestion of one of his many trainers, I tried booby trapping it last night by covering it with newspapers and balancing a couple beer cans filled with coins on the papers, which were supposed to fall off and make noise and either frighten him off or wake us up. They did neither. He managed to fit his large tuchus between the cans, barely even disturbing them. So, back to shutting him out of the living room at night. He hates that. The other night, I had to put his leash on him and drag him out. Literally drag him—he put that aforementioned large tuchus on the floor and wouldn’t move it.
Brat.
***
Slate has a special issue on procrastination (speaking of blogging) which includes this story, asking the question What is the difference between severe procrastination and writer's block?
So, I have this novel I’ve been working on for about three years. I’m in revisions. Ten painful pages at a time. And a half-finished book proposal that’s been collecting cyber dust for more than a year. So slow. I could do better. I know it. I’m not blocked, I’m procrastinating, Because as long as these remain remain unfinished they might be brilliant. If I finish them, their lead feet will be obvious.
Says one expert: "The chronic procrastinator knows he's presenting a negative image, but he'd rather be perceived negatively for lack of effort than for lack of ability."
***
The research corner:
Important news about men and their thingies: First, the International Society for Sexual Medicine has only just come up with (no pun intended) a formal definition of premature ejaculation. I know, can you believe it? I personally have never encountered this particular problem but in case you’re wondering, it is now defined as: “a male sexual dysfunction characterized by ejaculation which always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration; and, inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations; and, negative personal consequences, such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy.”
And, says the study’s main author, “The hope is that more people with these symptoms will understand this is an actual health condition and seek treatment. They no longer need to suffer in silence.”
In related thingie-research: Gastric Bypass Surgery Restores Sexual Function in Morbidly Obese Men—Losing weight may help resolve erectile dysfunction in obese men.
Mostly, it helps them get laid more, I assume.
Having just experienced a highly unpleasant allergic reaction to a drug (my friends got all the gory details, I spared most of you) I was drawn to research into why scratching helps an itch. The study involved 13 healthy participants who underwent testing with functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology that highlights areas of the brain activated during an activity. Participants were scratched on the lower leg with a small brush. The scratching went on for 30 seconds and was then stopped for 30 seconds – for a total of about five minutes.
“To our surprise, we found that areas of the brain associated with unpleasant or aversive emotions and memories became significantly less active during the scratching,” said Yosipovitch. “We know scratching is pleasurable, but we haven’t known why. It’s possible that scratching may suppress the emotional components of itch and bring about its relief.”
So scratching is not really physical relief, it’s emotional. Which, when you think about it makes sense. Itching is so miserable … a persistent itch makes you want to scream, cry, bang your head repeatedly against a wall. Finally succumbing to the urge to scratch? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It’s more than physical relief. It’s bliss—however short lived and guilty, since we know we shouldn’t scratch.
The rash is fading and I will never take Aleve again.
Here’s a fun read from the Wall Street Journal, about retail therapy. Yup, psychologists and neuroscientists are studying that, too. Not to help us, mind you. To help retailers.
But keep this in mind—just like those little 100-calorie size snack packs of cookies and other treats can help us eat less, how we carry money can help us spend less, according to one study: Students were given $100 in pretend cash to participate in a gambling study. Some students received one sealed envelope with all the money, and others got 10 sealed envelopes that each contained $10. Individuals with multiple envelopes tended to spend less, sometimes half of what the people with the single envelope spent. "The power of partitioning can reduce spending by 50 percent," Cheema said.
I don’t like carrying lots of cash for this very reason. If I have it, I spend it. If I have to go back to the ATM, I become more aware of my spending. (And I am on near-lockdown on credit cards right now. Not complete, but I’m staying careful. Baby needs a new tank of gas…)
***
Dunno why it’s taken me so long, but I’d like to point out a new blogroll link—to the blog of my friend Jenna and her friend Rachel. The Haiku Diaries is commentaries on life entirely in the 5-7-5 format. It’s so much fun. I like to comment in haiku when I’m feeling sharp enough.
***
This week instead of just a list of google searches, a little commentary on a select few.
Again, numerous searches for crossdressers in saris this week. Is it possible these are not just fetishists? I found a New York Times article about a Pakistani talk show host: Ali Saleem may have devised the perfect, if improbable, cover for breaking taboos in conservative, Muslim Pakistan.
In a country where publicly talking about sex is strictly off limits, Mr. Saleem has managed not only to bring up the subject on his prime-time television talk show — but to do so without stirring a backlash from fundamentalist Islamic clerics.
And he has done so as a woman.
In a sari.
I haven’t found anything similarly uplifting about searches for women peeing in saris.
On a related subject, I came across this Q&A from a woman who planned to cross dress her husband for a party because he lost a bet. Responders were not impressed.
I find a lot of searches that look like this: 2008 contact emails of the doctors @yahoo.com in Florida; email contact women's america 2008@yahoo.com
I was baffled until learning that these are the kinds of searches used by spammers to harvest email addresses. OK, that would explain the ever-thickening blizzard of spam I receive.
Three of my photos have become very popular: the one of a pyramid at Teotihuacan, the portrait of a xoloescuintle and the plastic army men war atrocities. These turn up so often, I assume someone is using them for something somewhere, but I can’t figure out how to figure it out.
Someone searched hillary jillette cunt which I suppose relates to Hillary Clinton and Penn Jillette. I know he called her a bitch. Did he call her a cunt, too? What a prick.
Someone searched Elizabet gilbert eat, pray, love review childfree, which is a little confusing.
Chelle, someone searched you. Someone searched my brother Oliver. And someone searched "black and blue" "rolling stones" tribute band dallas, texas myspace which had a very happy ending, since it resulted in a job for Black and Blue. May 31, Tolbert’s in Grapevine. Glad to help…
And that's Friday.
I am happy to report that the incorrigible Jack has become partly corriged. He has adjusted to the electric fence and no longer wanders at will. No more crossing the creek and coming home muddy, no more chasing off the mailman, no more patrolling the alley and riling up the other dogs. He doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the limits. Perhaps the responsibility of patrolling so large an area weighed heavily on his burly shoulders and troubled his large noggin. His own yard is large enough. So many squirrels, so little time. And so much napping to be done. How is one dog to do it all without some limits?
Now I need an electric fence for the sofa. He is not allowed on the sofa and knows it, but at night, after we go to bed, he helps himself. At the suggestion of one of his many trainers, I tried booby trapping it last night by covering it with newspapers and balancing a couple beer cans filled with coins on the papers, which were supposed to fall off and make noise and either frighten him off or wake us up. They did neither. He managed to fit his large tuchus between the cans, barely even disturbing them. So, back to shutting him out of the living room at night. He hates that. The other night, I had to put his leash on him and drag him out. Literally drag him—he put that aforementioned large tuchus on the floor and wouldn’t move it.
Brat.
***
Slate has a special issue on procrastination (speaking of blogging) which includes this story, asking the question What is the difference between severe procrastination and writer's block?
So, I have this novel I’ve been working on for about three years. I’m in revisions. Ten painful pages at a time. And a half-finished book proposal that’s been collecting cyber dust for more than a year. So slow. I could do better. I know it. I’m not blocked, I’m procrastinating, Because as long as these remain remain unfinished they might be brilliant. If I finish them, their lead feet will be obvious.
Says one expert: "The chronic procrastinator knows he's presenting a negative image, but he'd rather be perceived negatively for lack of effort than for lack of ability."
***
The research corner:
Important news about men and their thingies: First, the International Society for Sexual Medicine has only just come up with (no pun intended) a formal definition of premature ejaculation. I know, can you believe it? I personally have never encountered this particular problem but in case you’re wondering, it is now defined as: “a male sexual dysfunction characterized by ejaculation which always or nearly always occurs prior to or within about one minute of vaginal penetration; and, inability to delay ejaculation on all or nearly all vaginal penetrations; and, negative personal consequences, such as distress, bother, frustration and/or the avoidance of sexual intimacy.”
And, says the study’s main author, “The hope is that more people with these symptoms will understand this is an actual health condition and seek treatment. They no longer need to suffer in silence.”
In related thingie-research: Gastric Bypass Surgery Restores Sexual Function in Morbidly Obese Men—Losing weight may help resolve erectile dysfunction in obese men.
Mostly, it helps them get laid more, I assume.
Having just experienced a highly unpleasant allergic reaction to a drug (my friends got all the gory details, I spared most of you) I was drawn to research into why scratching helps an itch. The study involved 13 healthy participants who underwent testing with functional magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) technology that highlights areas of the brain activated during an activity. Participants were scratched on the lower leg with a small brush. The scratching went on for 30 seconds and was then stopped for 30 seconds – for a total of about five minutes.
“To our surprise, we found that areas of the brain associated with unpleasant or aversive emotions and memories became significantly less active during the scratching,” said Yosipovitch. “We know scratching is pleasurable, but we haven’t known why. It’s possible that scratching may suppress the emotional components of itch and bring about its relief.”
So scratching is not really physical relief, it’s emotional. Which, when you think about it makes sense. Itching is so miserable … a persistent itch makes you want to scream, cry, bang your head repeatedly against a wall. Finally succumbing to the urge to scratch? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It’s more than physical relief. It’s bliss—however short lived and guilty, since we know we shouldn’t scratch.
The rash is fading and I will never take Aleve again.
Here’s a fun read from the Wall Street Journal, about retail therapy. Yup, psychologists and neuroscientists are studying that, too. Not to help us, mind you. To help retailers.
But keep this in mind—just like those little 100-calorie size snack packs of cookies and other treats can help us eat less, how we carry money can help us spend less, according to one study: Students were given $100 in pretend cash to participate in a gambling study. Some students received one sealed envelope with all the money, and others got 10 sealed envelopes that each contained $10. Individuals with multiple envelopes tended to spend less, sometimes half of what the people with the single envelope spent. "The power of partitioning can reduce spending by 50 percent," Cheema said.
I don’t like carrying lots of cash for this very reason. If I have it, I spend it. If I have to go back to the ATM, I become more aware of my spending. (And I am on near-lockdown on credit cards right now. Not complete, but I’m staying careful. Baby needs a new tank of gas…)
***
Dunno why it’s taken me so long, but I’d like to point out a new blogroll link—to the blog of my friend Jenna and her friend Rachel. The Haiku Diaries is commentaries on life entirely in the 5-7-5 format. It’s so much fun. I like to comment in haiku when I’m feeling sharp enough.
***
This week instead of just a list of google searches, a little commentary on a select few.
Again, numerous searches for crossdressers in saris this week. Is it possible these are not just fetishists? I found a New York Times article about a Pakistani talk show host: Ali Saleem may have devised the perfect, if improbable, cover for breaking taboos in conservative, Muslim Pakistan.
In a country where publicly talking about sex is strictly off limits, Mr. Saleem has managed not only to bring up the subject on his prime-time television talk show — but to do so without stirring a backlash from fundamentalist Islamic clerics.
And he has done so as a woman.
In a sari.
I haven’t found anything similarly uplifting about searches for women peeing in saris.
On a related subject, I came across this Q&A from a woman who planned to cross dress her husband for a party because he lost a bet. Responders were not impressed.
I find a lot of searches that look like this: 2008 contact emails of the doctors @yahoo.com in Florida; email contact women's america 2008@yahoo.com
I was baffled until learning that these are the kinds of searches used by spammers to harvest email addresses. OK, that would explain the ever-thickening blizzard of spam I receive.
Three of my photos have become very popular: the one of a pyramid at Teotihuacan, the portrait of a xoloescuintle and the plastic army men war atrocities. These turn up so often, I assume someone is using them for something somewhere, but I can’t figure out how to figure it out.
Someone searched hillary jillette cunt which I suppose relates to Hillary Clinton and Penn Jillette. I know he called her a bitch. Did he call her a cunt, too? What a prick.
Someone searched Elizabet gilbert eat, pray, love review childfree, which is a little confusing.
Chelle, someone searched you. Someone searched my brother Oliver. And someone searched "black and blue" "rolling stones" tribute band dallas, texas myspace which had a very happy ending, since it resulted in a job for Black and Blue. May 31, Tolbert’s in Grapevine. Glad to help…
And that's Friday.
Labels: blogging, brain science, cross dressing, dallas morning news, dog training, dogs, google, jack, penises, photography, psychology, research, sex, sexism, shopping, writing
don't think
Thursday, May 15, 2008
So you know that old head game, don’t think about a white bear?
No? Well, don’t think about a white bear...
...now, what are you thinking about?
I’m trying not to think of the poor little poochy, but damned if that image isn’t locked and loaded into my head. It. Just. Won’t. Go. Away.
It’s not like I’ve never seen roadkill before. And it’s not like I’ve never seen an animal die before—Tom and I have had to euthanize four pets over the years and we wouldn’t dream of not being right there with them. I was even with my friend Russell when they turned off the respirator. I saw my brother in his coffin (he looked handsome and just like himself) and my mother (not good).
Nothing has haunted me like this little pup.
It was partly the violence of the moment. I won’t say more about what exactly haunts me because I find the thoughts so painful …
But I've been thinking now about soldiers. How do they ever recover from the experience of war? I guess they don’t, not really or completely. They must carry the images forever, if they don’t manage to repress them. (Yes, it's possible.)
This interesting article from Stanford discusses how women’s memories of disturbing, emotional images is stronger than men’s—that women tend to store the emotion of a memory in the same place in the brain as the memory whereas in men, the emotion and the memory activate different parts of the brain.
So I guess that might mean women wouldn’t make good killing machines, eh? Is that a good thing or bad? Discuss.
I am distracting myself as much as possible from the memory of that miserable moment Tuesday night. Lunch with my client yesterday was a lot of fun and productive. I held it together just fine. It’s only at quiet times that the image pops back up. I started crying during the final relaxation in yoga class this morning.(In unrelated good news, my tree pose was fine today so I seem to have recovered some balance.) However, it was good mental exercise to tear my mind away from the bad thought and bring it back to the moment—the music, my own breath. By wrestling my mind back to the here and now instead from the there and then, I felt immediately better.
Maybe little pup’s last moment has a little lesson for me. One I’d really rather have skipped. And so would he, I’m sure. If he’d had a chance to think about it.
No? Well, don’t think about a white bear...
...now, what are you thinking about?
I’m trying not to think of the poor little poochy, but damned if that image isn’t locked and loaded into my head. It. Just. Won’t. Go. Away.
It’s not like I’ve never seen roadkill before. And it’s not like I’ve never seen an animal die before—Tom and I have had to euthanize four pets over the years and we wouldn’t dream of not being right there with them. I was even with my friend Russell when they turned off the respirator. I saw my brother in his coffin (he looked handsome and just like himself) and my mother (not good).
Nothing has haunted me like this little pup.
It was partly the violence of the moment. I won’t say more about what exactly haunts me because I find the thoughts so painful …
But I've been thinking now about soldiers. How do they ever recover from the experience of war? I guess they don’t, not really or completely. They must carry the images forever, if they don’t manage to repress them. (Yes, it's possible.)
This interesting article from Stanford discusses how women’s memories of disturbing, emotional images is stronger than men’s—that women tend to store the emotion of a memory in the same place in the brain as the memory whereas in men, the emotion and the memory activate different parts of the brain.
So I guess that might mean women wouldn’t make good killing machines, eh? Is that a good thing or bad? Discuss.
I am distracting myself as much as possible from the memory of that miserable moment Tuesday night. Lunch with my client yesterday was a lot of fun and productive. I held it together just fine. It’s only at quiet times that the image pops back up. I started crying during the final relaxation in yoga class this morning.(In unrelated good news, my tree pose was fine today so I seem to have recovered some balance.) However, it was good mental exercise to tear my mind away from the bad thought and bring it back to the moment—the music, my own breath. By wrestling my mind back to the here and now instead from the there and then, I felt immediately better.
Maybe little pup’s last moment has a little lesson for me. One I’d really rather have skipped. And so would he, I’m sure. If he’d had a chance to think about it.
Labels: brain science, death, psychology, the meaning of life, yoga
bad and sad
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Don't read this if you don't feel like getting bummed out. (Does anyone ever actually feel like getting bummed out?) But I have to write it because it's all I can think about. (Besides, according to a recent poll discussed in this article, people get therapeutic value from blogging.)
Yoga isn’t competitive and you’re supposed to let go of all self judgment and listen to your body and bla-bla-bla—but all that aside, I really sucked in my yoga class last night. I got out the door late because I was having trouble getting my VCR (if I may be so old school) set to tape Idol (which also sucked last night) and then traffic was stupid and erratic so I arrived to the rec center late and then got stuck behind a slow moving lady screwing with her cell phone as I tried to scurry to class… I was all kerfuffled by the time I got to the “studio.” (It’s actually a conference room.)
My Tuesday night teacher does a lot of balance moves which I’m ordinarily pretty good at but last night, I could barely balance on two feet much less one. I was wibbling and wobbling and although I never actually fell on my ass, I couldn’t hold any of the poses. And the more that happened, the more annoyed and stressed I got (so un-yogi of me). Plus, the room was freezing, as is often the case, which is not ideal for yoga. (My teachers says it’s often too hot for her early class but then when she requests an adjustment, the arctic chill sets in.) Maybe it was the barometric pressure or maybe I’d eaten too much sugar this week (recall the late lamented coffee cake) or maybe my mind was too unbalanced which set the rest of me off balance, but it was one lousy evening of yoga. The only thing I rocked was the wheel, which for some reason I’m really good at. (OK, look at that photo. TMI right?)
After class my evening went from bad to worse.
Since Tom wouldn’t be home for dinner and the cupboards are bare, I figured I’d punish my incorrigible bod with Whataburger. Happily, my timing was right and the food was piping hot (don’t you hate greasy fast food that’s been sitting under the lamps too long?) but on the way home…
…oh, here I go, choking up again…
… I saw a little fluffy white doggie—it looked a lot like ZsaZsa (RIP)--get hit and killed by a car. I saw the whole thing happen and screamed—the car just sped on. I pulled over to see if it was…well, it wasn’t. It was clearly someone’s pet, all fat and fluffy and groomed. I put it on the median and sobbed all the way halfway home, then turned around and went back to make extra sure I couldn’t save it. Then I cried all the way home again.
Of course, my food was cold by the time I got home. So I sat on the couch and ate cold food and watched crappy Idol and cried all evening.
I can’t seem to shake the sad. It’s dark and rainy today and I keep thinking about that little pup lying on the median in the rain. Maybe I should have taken it and buried it but I was so freaked out, and someone will be looking for it, I’m sure.
I have lunch with a client today. Sure hope I can stop crying long enough to get through it. Poor little doggie.
Yoga isn’t competitive and you’re supposed to let go of all self judgment and listen to your body and bla-bla-bla—but all that aside, I really sucked in my yoga class last night. I got out the door late because I was having trouble getting my VCR (if I may be so old school) set to tape Idol (which also sucked last night) and then traffic was stupid and erratic so I arrived to the rec center late and then got stuck behind a slow moving lady screwing with her cell phone as I tried to scurry to class… I was all kerfuffled by the time I got to the “studio.” (It’s actually a conference room.)
My Tuesday night teacher does a lot of balance moves which I’m ordinarily pretty good at but last night, I could barely balance on two feet much less one. I was wibbling and wobbling and although I never actually fell on my ass, I couldn’t hold any of the poses. And the more that happened, the more annoyed and stressed I got (so un-yogi of me). Plus, the room was freezing, as is often the case, which is not ideal for yoga. (My teachers says it’s often too hot for her early class but then when she requests an adjustment, the arctic chill sets in.) Maybe it was the barometric pressure or maybe I’d eaten too much sugar this week (recall the late lamented coffee cake) or maybe my mind was too unbalanced which set the rest of me off balance, but it was one lousy evening of yoga. The only thing I rocked was the wheel, which for some reason I’m really good at. (OK, look at that photo. TMI right?)
After class my evening went from bad to worse.
Since Tom wouldn’t be home for dinner and the cupboards are bare, I figured I’d punish my incorrigible bod with Whataburger. Happily, my timing was right and the food was piping hot (don’t you hate greasy fast food that’s been sitting under the lamps too long?) but on the way home…
…oh, here I go, choking up again…
… I saw a little fluffy white doggie—it looked a lot like ZsaZsa (RIP)--get hit and killed by a car. I saw the whole thing happen and screamed—the car just sped on. I pulled over to see if it was…well, it wasn’t. It was clearly someone’s pet, all fat and fluffy and groomed. I put it on the median and sobbed all the way halfway home, then turned around and went back to make extra sure I couldn’t save it. Then I cried all the way home again.
Of course, my food was cold by the time I got home. So I sat on the couch and ate cold food and watched crappy Idol and cried all evening.
I can’t seem to shake the sad. It’s dark and rainy today and I keep thinking about that little pup lying on the median in the rain. Maybe I should have taken it and buried it but I was so freaked out, and someone will be looking for it, I’m sure.
I have lunch with a client today. Sure hope I can stop crying long enough to get through it. Poor little doggie.
Labels: blogging, blues, bummer, dogs, psychology, yoga
dorks
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
"What are you gonna wear, Scooter?"
"Let's wear our stripey outfits, Skippy."
"Let's wear our stripey outfits, Skippy."
Labels: advertising, dorks, newspapers, the horror
today's atrocity
Monday, May 12, 2008
So many questions...
Is it at all possible these are twins? Their hair is parted on different sides. Or is that just a clever, clever way of tricking us into thinking it's not the same woman?
This is/these are a very pretty woman/very pretty women--can't she/they get any better work?
What about these outfits made the Dillard's advertising department think them worthy of featuring in a half page ad?
Does Dillard's sell only the most hideous clothes its buyers can find? Is that why they can afford only one model?
Why does Dillard's they hate mothers? (This is a Mother's Day sale ad from yesterday.)
Any other questions?
Is it at all possible these are twins? Their hair is parted on different sides. Or is that just a clever, clever way of tricking us into thinking it's not the same woman?
This is/these are a very pretty woman/very pretty women--can't she/they get any better work?
What about these outfits made the Dillard's advertising department think them worthy of featuring in a half page ad?
Does Dillard's sell only the most hideous clothes its buyers can find? Is that why they can afford only one model?
Why does Dillard's they hate mothers? (This is a Mother's Day sale ad from yesterday.)
Any other questions?
Labels: advertising, clothing, mother's day, newspapers, shopping, the horror
do it this way
Aside from imparting the shocking news that the Oxford English Dictionary is going online only, this article (thanks again, MsKrit) is delightfully written. No nits to pick here.
Labels: books, news, newspapers, wordplay, words, writing
neatness counts
I am nitpicky about writing. No secret there. No, I don’t nitpick friends’ e-mails—I’m just happy to receive them. And I don’t get worked up about bad writing by nonprofessionals. Not everyone can write and not everyone wants to. We all have different skills and that’s fine.
But I feel justified in getting snotty about people who are paid to write. I don’t understand how any professional writer can write the overused, dust-farting “welcome to” lede—which I see at least once a week in the Dallas Morning News—without shriveling with shame. C’mon. You’re holding one of the few remaining paid journalism jobs in the nation and that’s the best you can do?
God help me, I’m turning into my nemesis, Paula LaRoque, whom I will loathe forever. But Mondays are hard enough without facing aggravation in my morning paper.
I’ll give Mario Tarradell a teeny weeny pass, since he had to write fast to get a review of Dolly Parton’s show last night in today’s paper. But the writing was so sloppy, I slumped into my coffee. Where are the editors? I know, I know. Everyone in the newspaper is overworked. But newspapers aren’t doing anything about their own sorry state by ignoring quality.
So, what annoyed me so? You’re dying to know, I’m sure.
First: The country icon and pop-culture giant always puts on a good show, no matter how many times you’ve seen her before.
Hm. What do “you” have to do with the fact that Dolly puts on a good show? Does he mean that no matter how many times you’ve seen Dolly, her shows are still fun?
Sloppy.
And, the story continues, Dolly sounded splendid, looked fabulous and seemed incredibly personable.
Seemed personable? Was she personable or not? Was it some kind of weird sleight-of-personality trick?
Furthermore , it’s easy to take Dolly for granted: She’s been around so long and has pretty consistently charmed us with her musical talent, her down-home wit and that signature image often copied but never duplicated.
Again, pretty consistently? Is this hedging, in case a reader writes in and points out the time Dolly was less than charming? Is this the allegedly of criticism?
And, to really pick a nit, I’ve never seen anyone try to copy Dolly’s signature image, have you? Show me.
And on it goes. Mario urges us to pick up a copy of her great new CD, and you can hear how this legend continues to polish off more gems.
Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong (fair is fair), but when we say we polish off something, doesn’t it mean we finish it? Tom and I have just about polished off the coffee cake I baked Saturday morning. The phrase doesn’t make sense in this context. Perhaps he meant to say she polished some gems? Maybe I’m wrong…
Yeah, OK, I’m turning into one of those annoying old farts I used to hear from when I worked at the paper, the ones who wrote a snippy letter every time I misplaced a comma in a story. But this kind of stuff just irks the crap outta me. And it is Monday, after all.
But I feel justified in getting snotty about people who are paid to write. I don’t understand how any professional writer can write the overused, dust-farting “welcome to” lede—which I see at least once a week in the Dallas Morning News—without shriveling with shame. C’mon. You’re holding one of the few remaining paid journalism jobs in the nation and that’s the best you can do?
God help me, I’m turning into my nemesis, Paula LaRoque, whom I will loathe forever. But Mondays are hard enough without facing aggravation in my morning paper.
I’ll give Mario Tarradell a teeny weeny pass, since he had to write fast to get a review of Dolly Parton’s show last night in today’s paper. But the writing was so sloppy, I slumped into my coffee. Where are the editors? I know, I know. Everyone in the newspaper is overworked. But newspapers aren’t doing anything about their own sorry state by ignoring quality.
So, what annoyed me so? You’re dying to know, I’m sure.
First: The country icon and pop-culture giant always puts on a good show, no matter how many times you’ve seen her before.
Hm. What do “you” have to do with the fact that Dolly puts on a good show? Does he mean that no matter how many times you’ve seen Dolly, her shows are still fun?
Sloppy.
And, the story continues, Dolly sounded splendid, looked fabulous and seemed incredibly personable.
Seemed personable? Was she personable or not? Was it some kind of weird sleight-of-personality trick?
Furthermore , it’s easy to take Dolly for granted: She’s been around so long and has pretty consistently charmed us with her musical talent, her down-home wit and that signature image often copied but never duplicated.
Again, pretty consistently? Is this hedging, in case a reader writes in and points out the time Dolly was less than charming? Is this the allegedly of criticism?
And, to really pick a nit, I’ve never seen anyone try to copy Dolly’s signature image, have you? Show me.
And on it goes. Mario urges us to pick up a copy of her great new CD, and you can hear how this legend continues to polish off more gems.
Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong (fair is fair), but when we say we polish off something, doesn’t it mean we finish it? Tom and I have just about polished off the coffee cake I baked Saturday morning. The phrase doesn’t make sense in this context. Perhaps he meant to say she polished some gems? Maybe I’m wrong…
Yeah, OK, I’m turning into one of those annoying old farts I used to hear from when I worked at the paper, the ones who wrote a snippy letter every time I misplaced a comma in a story. But this kind of stuff just irks the crap outta me. And it is Monday, after all.
mother's day
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Dear MILF,
It annoys me that you're hotter than I am so here are some hideous, dumpy outfits so my boyfriend stops looking at you like you're a sweet piece of mom-candy.
Happy Mother's Day!
Hugs!
Your daughter
It annoys me that you're hotter than I am so here are some hideous, dumpy outfits so my boyfriend stops looking at you like you're a sweet piece of mom-candy.
Happy Mother's Day!
Hugs!
Your daughter
Labels: holidays, milf, mother's day, shopping
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