Naked mom argues with son, accidentally shoots finger
Um, SO, she flipped her son off.? This is Texas, which has tremendous subset overlappage with Greater Redneckia. Who among us has not pissed off their own naked mother, resulting in said nude dam flipping the bird at us? What? No?
From the article:
A 73-year-old Fort Worth woman shot her finger after arguing with her son because she had been walking around the house naked, police said.
I mean, after arguing with her son about her nudity, are we to believe she shot her own finger in a fit of pique? Was she aiming at him? I mean, you almost could assume that she shot her own finger intentionally. I like my version of events in which she just flipped the guy off.
Apparently, the woman was walking nude around her own damned house at 1:30 AM, and her 53 year old son was outraged and took issue with her nudity. Here's what I think about that-- I think that any soul to reach the august age of 73 has the right to walk nude through their own home at 1:30 AM. If he doesn't like it, her 53 year old son can tear his ass on out of there and get his own dad-burned apartment, oui? Si.
But shooting her own finger?
Maybe there should be a four-rules rule of nudity. Let's compose one, shall we:
- All nudity is loaded with irony, always
- Never aim your nudity at someone with whom you wish to remain on friendly terms
- Keep your hands off clothing fasteners until you're ready to un-deploy them
- Always be sure of your intended nudity recipient/victim, and their respective posses
h/t to g bro
I let the dog out back late Tuesday before bed, and I saw she didn't go down the stairs immediately. I looked around the deck through the window, unlocked the door and stepped out to see doglet standing, curious, over a little furball thingie.
At first, I thought some disused old stuffed animal had found its way to my deck, but no, it was a dead little possum on its side. Not adult, but not still on the teat - adolescent. Maybe 2 pounds. But wait, I saw a whisker quiver. It's breathing.
Doglet's doing the Scooby Doo curiosity "rowmpf?" and little possum is, well, playing possum. I immediately scoop up the doglet and set her down on the stairs, closing the deck gate behind her and turn back to regard the wee beastie. I think "what do I do?" Eek. I see a big stick and for a millisecond consider trying to flip the dadburned thing off the deck, golf-style. Nope, not smart. Fur and teeth and claws contingent will come out fighting big stupid pink monster.
SO, its eyes are wider now, watching me. I'm 6 feet away and turn to see doglet is pacing outside the gate, wanting back in to sniff this curious thing. I look back at the possum which has gotten up from its side, onto its feet, crawling in a low crouch to the edge of the deck. Up it went on the hardware cloth I put up around the deck railing, never looking back as it climbed over and disappeared into the night.
I was so relieved. Um, when I was talking about the beauty of nature recently, well, that's not quite what I meant. I hope the whole possum clan won't be lurking about. I don't want to lose the doglet in a possum-related incident.
Possums are funny, because they have that crazed rictus of a mouth, and they're almost kind of cute, but they're kind of evil-looking. They're kind of mean I think, and they carry fleas and diseases. But for all that, possum is one of the cutest animal names ever, don't you think? Lil' possum. That's just darling!
Let me know if you get sick of target pictures.
Oh-- wait! This is my blog, right? Never mind.
So, I went to the range and was graciously loaned the Ruger mark II I used for the competition on Sunday. The first photo is the first 4 magazines I shot, warming up. Some of it is a little sloppy-ish, but I'm pretty happy with this bunch. This was about 7 yards.
Next group was also at 7 yards. I did a couple magazines in the Ruger, and then he let me shoot something of Belgian manufacture, made for the Argentinian (army? police? Sorry - dim bulb syndrome strikes) and it was made in 1961. Coolness. It had a lot more recoil and you can see the holes are significantly larger than the .22 freckles. I was really happy with this group. You can see the steel plate beyond the target, too, and it was nice to hear the plink as my shots sailed through the cardboard to the steel beyond.
More shooty goodness. Good times.
Farting around Friday night and trying to motivate myself to clean, I opened a bottle champers and lit some candles and fairy lights. It was pretty how everything looked this pale, shimmery golden color together, and so in order to procrastinate the cleaning task, I started playing with the camera, fiddling with the speed to capture strings of heavenward bubbles and the thin-walled glass burnished with frost. I couldn't find a champagne flute, and I didn't feel like using my 1920s vintage champagne glasses-- too twee for the occasion - so this little beaker thingie had to do. Yes, good solid labware is useful for such industrious occasions.
If I may indulge myself, I simply must whine a bit.
I spent most of Monday dealing with a mud eruption near the pool on property. Maintenance is on vacation, and the replacement staff have communication issues and couldn't help with the problem. Further, the mudruption is causing a mud slick across the paved path of the one of the crown jewels of the city's park systems. Isn't that nice? How I've escaped major tix from kode inforsement is a marvel. I called a real plumber out who charges me $200/hour on regular Mon-Fri appointments during business hours. He cut the water off to 2/3 of my residents for 2 hours Monday night, and "fixed" the problem. I'm going to pay him 3.5 hours of holiday overtime, and heaven knows what that will cost. SO, Tuesday evening, there's a new mud geyser a mere 3 feet away from the last one. *Oh, Joy.*
I love the easy access of great dining and the variety of entertainments available here. In a lot of ways, I think I like this place better than I would any other American city, but for some time I've been feeling the urge to get away from the fakery and ridiculousness of it all. I realize any job and any place has its stresses, but this is making me long to man the reins of a trailer park in the backwoods.
Better still, no more jobs babysitting adults.
I was visiting family friends on their little cattle farm last year, and near sundown, I could hear a meadowlark teaching its babies to call. I heard the mama and then the wobbly nestlings sounding out their wonky imitations of her perfect tune. She very patiently said "no, darlings, a little more like this" and then "now, try again, dears." I thought "why would anyone who lives out here ever long to live in a city?"
So, anyhoo, when this job ends, well, I can't say where I'll be next year, but it certainly won't be here.
Call me silly, but I really like this, for some reason.
There were five groups shooting and I got cobbled onto one group which apparently had room for one more person. The person organizing the match said "now don't let these guys intimidate you. Just take your time and I know you'll do well. These guys are known as the God Squad."
In truth, I didn't even have a flutter of nerves or anything. I went in expecting to likely finish last out of the scores of humanity present, and I forgave myself in advance. I was very pleased when I shot my 5 sets in the first bay clean with no misses. I was slow on the first set, and then I found my legs and the next 4 sets were at least 3 seconds faster than the initial set. I missed a couple smaller targets on the second bay, but shot the third bay cleanly again. *FUN* The fourth was a longer range than ever I had shot, and it was more of a hash for me, but I'm still okay with it. I had to leave a little early to attend an emergency back at my property, and I was just going to withdraw, and officials very graciously offered to let me shoot through on the final bay. This final set wasn't my best, either, but at that point, I was so hot that focus was becoming an issue for me. I know a lot of things I'll do differently next time.
As reportingly, the God Squad were colossal badasses on the range, some moreso than others. One guy shot revolvers and he had a belt with a row of spindles sticking out for his autoloader thingies and it turned out I was shooting just after him. I kept thinking at least I'm not following an animal or kid act. Well, revolver guy was a beast, let me tell you--his accuracy was impressive to say the least, and he was fast. So much for not following an animal act
One cool thing about this match is that I didn't have an inkling I'd compete that day until just the day before, so I didn't have weeks or months to wrap around my own axle over the whole thing. I'm looking forward to shooting again. I got steady support throughout the process, and I hope it didn't seem too much like hand-holding. No one had to babysit me, and I don't think I took dramatically longer to shoot my turn than other folks.
Oh, in the first round and before my turn, I was sitting on a bench watching the shooting when I suddenly felt a searing pain on my sternum. I was wearing a v-neck top and this was my first experience with a fiery bit of brass. I didn't jump out of my skin or think I'd been shot, but it certainly surprised me how something several millimeters wide could hurt so badly. Today it's a grayish sort of welt. So, one of the things I'll be doing differently is I'll be the chick at the matches in a turtleneck in July. I'll try to get a pic of the brass bit up later today so you can see what a wimpy tender vittle I really am.
Interpol - Pioneer to the Falls
This is my favorite song for the moment.
As so often happens with me, the bits of the song with which I am besotted occur in the last minute in the form of the soaring arid western swagger of crystalline bendy guitars. Wonky calliope peeks in now and again, and the singer's nervy baritone affects me muchly. Martial snare drum syncopation propels with locomotive energy that is so compelling and gives the music such a sense of urgency. Like the lyrics, too-- a little more elevating than Interpol's usual fare, IMHO, and if I were betting, I'd say it's something of a valentine.
Saturday I went to observe a shooting match with Holly, and afterward we went to lunch at Babe's. We and the handsome couple at the next table laughed as the waitresses came out and humiliated a birthday celebrant at another table by making them wear a chicken hat and stand up and flap their arms as they sang a chicken birthday song. I leaned over to the next table and said "It's one of y'all's birthday, right?" in jest, and he said "yeah, it's my birthday." Well, I thought he was pulling my leg, but Holly ratted him out to the waitress, and they ended up doing the whole fanfare for Randy at the next table. It was a hoot. Turns out, it really WAS Randy's birthday. I think he enjoyed the attention. At least, I hope he did.
We went to the Crate & Barrel outlet in Dallas and Hols got some Christmas shopping done--she's a MACHINE! SRSLY. Our Holly was then eager to experience Lee Harvey's, which was my local when I lived in the 'hood, so we went and hung out with a Shiner and a Stella Artois in our respective paws, and we talked and laughed and cut up in general. Holly managed to shock the barmaid -no mean feat, I'd wager. Holly enjoyed looking at LH's extensive collection of Baraphernalia, much of it in situ since previous inbarnations at the site such as Moose's Baby. Yeah, it's a super-cool, oober-hip hangout, but Holly and me? Well, that's just how we roll.
The juke box there is glorious, to say the least, and then a song by Interpol came on and I started thinking about the love/hate thing I've had going on with that band for a while. I ADORE their song Evil, but find the video unsettling, and the lyrics somewhat mystifying. OF course, I'm not one to let bewilderment get in the way of a good time. It's just the Nanny Ogg in me.
Tomorrow I'm shooting with Holly and another badass woman shooter in a steel plate match. I can't believe they'll have me on their team, but who am I to argue with their superior wisdom? It should be fun. Even though H&C are really good at shooting, I'm not feeling nervous about it. I'm a total n00b, so no pressure, right? S'long as everyone has fairly low expectations, I should do alright!
Ships in the harbor are safe, but that's not what ships are
Ugly as home-made upholstery...
I decided to have a Friday night project. I needed a big piece of foam to make a cushion for the sofa(which i'll sew later), and I had a coupon for 40% off the item of my choice at JoAnn fabrics. Well, this 5" thick foam is $51.99/yard, and I need 2 yards and got a little extra for another project. With tax and everything and the 40% off, this green piece of foam was almost $80. I'm kind of staggered by that, but then again I DO have "sucker" stamped on my forehead. Anyway.
Once at a fleamarket in McKinney, I bought a plain wooden frame thingie, thinking it would make a nice little ottoman. I primed/sized/gold leafed four finials and used them for feet and then just did a crude upholstery job of a red and gold toile onto a plywood base. Eventually, the ottoman became the doglet's means of conveyance onto the bed, and the fabric got dirty and faded over time. These days, the doglet has a 3-stage ottoman/chair/bed hopping process. Them old hips ain't what they once was since she got a hitch in her gitalong. Poor old lady.
Well, I got enough extra foam to cobble onto the ottoman project and I was off to the races. I also picked up this denim fabric with natural linen stitching.
My new staple gun is kind of crap, really, but then again, maybe this plywood is harder than the staple gun is made to penetrate. Anyway, I pretty much did a pitiful job, but at least I got something accomplished today. I'll probably rip it all out and redo it later this summer or something.
Either that, or I'll still have the ottoman with this upholstery in 20 years. It'll be one or t'other. My upholstery teacher would be mortified, I think. Oh well, at least it's not dirty and stinky yet.
So I found this video on YouTube, and it's such a visual feast of what was most tatty and tacky about the 1960s that it thrilled the very cockroaches of my heart. At first I thought it was a parody video by Sarah Silverman, but come to find out it was a video of a song recorded by songstress Gale Garnett in the 60s. I remember hearing her hit "We'll Sing in the Sunshine" on road trips in the 70s, but otherwise I was unfamiliar with Ms. Garnett. The colors, the wannabe Frenchy/Rococo decor and a staggering array of phallic objects render this one of the most dazzling music videos, ever, in my humble opinion. In fact, there's so much penis-like festoonery in this video that sitting here alone in the dark, I think I must have blushed three or four times.
I'm very much into lists, lately, so let's make one, shall we?
Bed with posts(4), all quite knobbly
Bedside lamps(2), also knobbish
Model 707on pedestal(1) (so modern! so new!)
Knights with lance-like pole thingies(2)
I giggle when she coyly raises her shoulder as she sings "five years ago I did London" (what does that mean, anyway?) the two knights turn with interest and check her out. I could hear their inner dialogue of Scooby-Doo-ness as they realized here was a girl whom they long had sought: a girl they couldn't introduce to mum, a girl who grabbed life by the orbs, a girl with standards--low ones.
On to the "mystical fling in Bombay" scene, she's atop a prosthetic elephant with
More knobby silhouettes in the background(more)
Hmmm. Our little walking petri dish is "known as a sport in all of the ports." Nice to be so cultured. As Christina would say, I hope she's stocked upon her penisillin!
My personal favorite scene is the one with the red devil mannequin-- what a stiff! He holds his golden trident aloft as he stands fiercely cool, his prognosticles receiving a full-steam facial from the gently bubbling cauldron strategically placed just below said wedding tackle. Hard man, indeed!
Here too we have a pair of dancing lovelies making nice to a couple of birdcages, also bedecked with knobs. This entire avenue of eroticism escapes me utterly. Really, darlings! Frolicking with a birdcage??? Have you smelled one of those things? Yeuch! Hygiene, s'il vous plait!
I'm totally digging Gale's knowing, wistful little glance back at Beelzebub as she intones "I'm sure I know the geography of hell." Mind you don't turn into a pillar of salt there, Missy!
Anyhoo, it's all rather delicious, isn't it?
Finally, we return to the point of origin, the boudoir des peepees, and a duly chastened Gale regrets the hollow sluttiness of her libertine ways, now appearing in a modest travel frock of black with sweet polka-dots at the collar and cuffs. She's learned her lesson. It's going to be okay. No more acting out and waking up nude in strange seraglios. No more ghastly falafel. No more cat-fighting with non-Engrish-speaking hatchet-faced harem-fraus over swarthy, beastly men she's not attracted to anyway, ultimately having to sneak out in the laundry bags. It's the start of a new day, a new world!
Wait, she steps outside the door and suddenly her coat is a more slatternly, wanton red. Hmmm... I'm not so sure our Gale has learned her lesson, as she has packed the equipment for play and is apparently carrying it with her in the suitcase. She sets off in the direction marked "True Love," but I've seen the Princess Bride, and I don't think she's doing it the right way. Hopefully she did some more cautionary tale videos. I'll look for them and report back here. Watch this space.
I decided since I wear heels a lot, that I need some I'm comfortable shooting in on the range, thus I ordered these two wedge-heeled shoes from Nordstrom for strategic range purposes. I figure if I'm ever in the way of needing to shoot, I'll be in my cowgirl boots or in heels, so I may as well get accustomed to calculating angles and whatnot. And I'm definitely going to be putting in a lot of time on the range. The wedge is about 2 1/2", so it's not like they're outrageously tall or anything. Plus, I think in their way, they still manage to look somewhat cute whilst still being a little more rough-and-rugged than my usual footwear. I think the top pair will be best, since they have that velcro strap for adjusting the fit in the back. Unfortunately, this brand of shoe only comes in whole sizes, but at least they are fairly cheap.
Speaking of cowgirl boots, I have a tip for the ladies (you male persons may not want to read the rest of this): I have recently discovered the annual lady-doctor visit is much more pleasant if you wear and keep on your cowgirl boots. Dunno why. I think they ward off evil, or something. Or maybe it's the stirrups, or some such. Whatever works.
We have the technology.*
Despite the outlay of millions for repairs, a leaking levee in New Orleans is causing some concerns. In fact, the article states that this seepage is due to the mushy soil upon which the very city is built.
Whyzzit so easy to call people who build houses near volcanoes "dipshits" but we accept with unblinking veracity the sanity of all those asshats who stalwartly demand to go on living in New Orleans, calling it a national treasure and all that?
Why did ancient civilizations abandon some cities? Maybe because they weren't working out? Maybe the ancients were smarter than we are. We'll bang our heads bloody against a wall before we concede that *ahem* perhaps we can not overcome nature in all instances. Perhaps if one builds one's house on sinking sands, one deserves one's house to sink.
*extreme sarcasm mode
Pair of shoes needs a new baby!!!
Come to momma.
Yes, they shall be mine.
They had me at Good-Luck Kitty soles.
Now the dilemma-- Red or Turquoise?
Why not both?
My inner vixen is pawing the earth.
I knew the crazy brunette was going to win the catfight all along. This 1950 film scored an impressive 2.7 of 10 stars. Big points for the schlocky narration by Captain Obvious.
The plot summaries over on IMDB are worth reading. Good stuff.
Labels: crap cinema
Some days it's harder to like people than others.
Always be sure of your target and its backstop...
Nifty video from Japan of precision marksmanship. Expensive ammo, though.
This makes me giggle.
Puli, a Hungarian herding dog with a corded coat, is a very low-dander dog, and they are as cute as can be, yes?
Matt G was lamenting that They Might Be Giants came to Dallas and he had no ideer.
Well, I try telling you people about all the good music (including some in other fair cities) but I can't bloody drag you out and force you to have a good time, so it's my great burden to drag my own happy ass out and have enough fun for the entire lot of us. Lordy, my load is heavy!
You can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think.
Anyhoo, in honor of Matt G (who shares my most esteeemed birthdate) here's a couple photos of the They Might Be Giants show at the House of Blues in Dallas. I have to say the seats at Dallas' House of Blues are all good, and it's one of the all-around best concert venues I've ever experienced from both the cheap and expensive seats.
Upcoming shows of note in Dallas include Ruthie Foster (FHB-- why don't you and D come up to Dallas for that one???) at the Granada and Charlie Sexton at the Belmont Hotel. Great blues gigs which I'm betting won't be overly-packed.
I think it would be a lot of fun to see a post-apocalyptic, Terminator-style movie in which the humans have been eliminated and we can see the matcheens duke it out with Rasberry Ants and their ilk. I'd be betting on the insects, frankly.
Walk the XX blocks to HOB.
$10 cab ride home...
$25 to see live cellos playing lots of badassery of Metallica & their ilk?
I'm SO there.
A particularly elegant re-imagining of Metallica's Nothing Else Matters by Apocalyptica
I got an upcoming events email which apparently wasn't for Dallas only. Crap. If you're in Vegas on Monday, go see Apocalyptica, and I'll be wanting a full accounting of the event. Oh well.
Things are coming together nicely at Rancho la Phlegm. I cleared a large area of the floor Tuesday morning (boxes for goodwill) and after my shower, I dropped the towels and things from the bath over the banister down to the concrete floor below to put in the wash. I looked down first to make sure I didn't bean the little barbwire pineapple with a sodden towel, NOT that her blind-and-deaf arse would have noticed, and as I looked down, I saw a curious shape on the floor, much like a handlebar moustache, dark or black in color. Hmmm. Wot's that? I didn't recall leaving anything on the floor. Turns out, Miss Buns has had some decorating ideers of her own, and has pretensions of "aroma stylist" at an impressive number of parts-per-million. She can alter the olfactory profile with lightning speed, I must say. I should buy stock in the company that makes Brawny paper towels. I've been through an entire roll since Saturday.
Here's a pic of teh LOLDOGLET on the sofa, which I've be-cutened with an old bedspread. Lordy, but she does work hard trying to herd me, to no avail, and it just wears her old carcass out.
Sunday afternoon I wasn't feeling great but I decided to go and work on my back yard. I have a wrought-iron fence which she could easily slip through, so I put up hardware cloth with zip-ties.(I LOVE zip-ties - they're just the coolest!) Got the whole thing fenced in so that I could let her out off her leash. The first time I opened the door and beckoned her out, she wouldn't go out until I did. Then she came out, and instead of going downstairs to ground level, she went to the edge of the deck and peed through the crack and onto the air-conditioning unit. Seems the air in my place is destined to smell of pee or poop. *le sigh*
Phlegm: go look at the pic i just sent you
Christina: Wow, talk about road-rash waiting to happen!
Phlegm: That person on the right is a MAN, baby! and so is the creature on the pink vespa.
Christina: Are you serious?
Holly: That was a MAN?
Phlegm: yup. two mens.
Christina: Not by my definition
Phlegm: he was SUCH a xxxx, too - could barely stay upright,
Holly: But surely the Vespa has on short shorts?
Phlegm: looked drunk, frankly
Phlegm: it was a sight.
Christina: Probably has moobies, too
Phlegm: hell - he prolly had a Mangina
Phlegm: i tried to contain myself and act casual so I could get away with snapping the photo.
Christina: I'd like to see THEM go into a biker bar!
Phlegm: It wouldn't be pretty
Holly: Mangina? I have never heard of one of those...do postops have those?
Phlegm: no ideer. I don't know. Don't wanna know.
Holly: Did you make that word up?
Phlegm: I don't think so. Surely I've heard that somewhere before?
Phlegm: by the way, this whole convo must go on the blog, don't you think?
Holly: It's great...I've never heard it..but like Christina's friend's saying about push up bras...I'm using it
Phlegm: YAYS! My next post is written!
Holly threw a birthday wingding for her lovely husband JPG, and a lot of fine folks showed up.
I arrived about a half hour early, and Holly and JPG were already there with Holly's daughter and son who, after much begging from me and Holly and some strong urging from the birthday boy, finally sang the Dodi al Fayed song for us. I was thrilled, having earlier been delighted by the story Hols told of when the whole Lady Di crash thing happened, her kids came up with this Dodi al Fayed chant. It was hilarious.
Various relatives and friends showed up. Rabbit, he of the pithy comment, was there and he's every bit the rapier wit in person that he is in pixels. He's a hoot. Some people I've recently met from the gun range showed up. At one point, a couple people were showing pets and family on their cell phones. They had all these adorable pictures and I went to pick up my cell phone and then realized I had no pictures of loved ones. Then I showed the gun club president and her husband the dead body on Ervay street photo I had. They cooed and intoned their approval. This was the Kodak moment Norman Rockwell forgot to paint.
Anyhoo, Matt G and his adorable family arrived and it was funny to see him in the flesh. I was quickly engrossed in convo with his wife about her ceramics and about glass bead making. I'm going to keep begging her to collaborate with me on some jewelry. Their girls are gorgeous, smart things, and I complimented the eldest on her Barbie-shooting skills, and the youngest displayed a mouth freshly denuded of several prominent teeth, and I urged her to become a dentist. Later, Matt said "you're phlegmmy?" I said I am, and he said he thought I'd be older, that I write like an older person. I think that perception may have been fueled by the bad puns I trot out well past their sell-by dates.
Anyway, today is JPG's birthday, and I wish him a very happy one and many, many more. Thanks for all your kind help and the shooty sessions. It's an honour to know you, Sir, and with the possible exception of a few critters in the world, I'll bet you're a hero to everyone who knows you. You certainly are to me.
Recently he tagged me for a meme. Hmmm, let's see now.
1. Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. No cheating!
2. Find page 123.
3. Find the first five sentences.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.
*ouch! Just got a hella paper cut on this book, Photography in Nineteenth Century America*
Farther down the river "a small colony of Chinamen are engaged in washing gold from the sands of the river, and at Shoshone Falls also; on the beach of the cove which is represented in the immediate foreground of the picture there are good diggings" that, when exhausted, are miraculously renewed "by the agency of the river." Underscoring the beneficence of this entire landscape, Wheeler concludes with a warm, domestic scene: "Near the left side of the stream, just above the falls, stands Eagle Rock, and isolated boulder 60 feet high, on whose summit an eagle has established its home and built its nest, interweaving the branches of trees into a basket for the proteciton of the young." O'Sullivan's Shoshone Falls photographs thus present an interpretive problem.
So, um, if you want to be tagged, consider yourself tagged.
Jealous much? Uh, actually, yeah, occasionally.
Oh well. Here's a song for a Saturday:
Mushaboom by Feist
Tuesday the intarw3bz was installed, and that evening I bought a power strip/surge protector which I finally got 'round to prugging in on Thursday night so I could finally have enough outlets to have sound. So I sashayed over to yootoob where I found this dusky gem:
What could be more metal than cellos?
I can't think of a thing. Very sexy instrument, that.
Anyhoo, this woman is Nina Hagen, right? Call me nutty, but I think she looks better than ever, and I just LOVE that thing she's doing with her hair. I have always loved her crazy energy, and her sublime flair for drama perfectly suits this setting. But what's up with them skull boobies? Not something I'd want to see/hear every day, but good for oncet in a while...
The following video, OTOH, should never be watched by anyone, but I can't help myself:
What did you say?
Oh! I'm so glad you asked! I wore my favorite black silk chiffon skirt with the wonky poky-dots. I suspect polka-dots are vastly underrepresented on gun ranges throughout the world, and I'm going to do my part to bring to the fore the prim and modest polka dot. I think I need to start a ribbon campaign or something. I also wore my black Steve Madden 4" wedge maryjanes which I found in a box I unpacked Wednesday morning. It's like Christmas, unpacking my stuff. Well, like Christmas before my axis shifted and I decided I liked shooty fun at least as much as I love shoes. That's really saying something.
Did you hear about the 107 year old lightbulb in the firestation in Livermore, California? It is claimed this lightbulb has been turned off only a handful of times. Yet here it is burning on. This gives the lie to the proponents of new bulbs which have to be changed more frequently. What does this early bulb have that new bulbs don't??? Or, rather, what do newer, shorter-lived bulbs have that this century-old bulb doesn't have?
Why aren't manufacturerers emulating this very old, efficient bulb, rather than splitting hairs and involving mercury in the process?
This bug had to die. Shot with a .22 at 7 yards with a Ruger Mark II or a Browning Buckmark - can't remember which. Or maybe it was both?
Sunday afternoon I had some shooty goodness with Holly and a fabulous shooting instructor, who gave me a lesson. It's really great to get instruction from a variety of teachers because it seems like I hear something completely new every time. After a bit, I said I needed to rest and I hoped I didn't seem wimpy, and she said I'd been shooting for over an hour, and that wasn't wimpy. It was also nice to get instruction from a woman for a different perspective. I did an okay job of shooting, generally.
I have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to friends -- JPG and Holly are starting to remind me of the old jokes about Zeke Smith knowing everyone-- remember those? Anyway, I'm joining a gun club really soon and then I'll be able to go and shoot more regularly. Wednesday I'm supposed to meet a gunsmith to get my J-frame trigger tweaked. That'll be nice to have done. The sneaking suspicion is dawning on me that I have a new passion which will seriously put a dent in my shoe budget, but what a way to go, eh?
I has teh Intarw3bz in my apartment. The internet guy came early today. :)
The free wi-fi thing didn't work out - apparently there's too much brick and stuff between me and the source, or maybe I just found the one black-holey spot in the apartment for my machine. I finally had to pony up and pay for it.
To the folks on my blogroll: expect copious comments from yours truly effective toute-de-suite, since I don't have to comment from my cell phone with no caps any mo'.
Yip yip yahoo!
Being the juvenile sort I am , the low-brow arena of the bad pun thrills me muchly. Further, when I have to give the same spiel a million times, I look for ways to enliven the task for myself.
About a year ago, I listed an apartment on the market with a huge, tree-shaded deck in the back. It was a perfect setting for parties, in my opinion, so I made free to capitalize on the added value of the extended outdoor living space. In short order, when describing the apartment to prospective residents, I would always mention its "big, swinging deck."
[you know what's coming here, don't you?]
So, one day, having gotten it right about , oh, say, 30 or so times, I was showing the loft to a couple of men who seemed quite keen. Feeling confident, thinking "they really like it/ They look like they throw great parties/ I think they're going to rent it" I let my inner dialogue totally futz up my game.
Yes, I said the apartment had a "big swinging dick."
They laughed uproariously, knowing what I meant.
I blushed profusely.
They rented the apartment.
Sometime soon I'll post more pics, but for now it's embarrassingly chaotic. I confess that being a creative type, chaos is my natural state, but I like to start with it all clean and then let it devolve into a natural sort of mess which reflects my creative arc. That way it's more gradual and logical to me, rather than just everything dumped higgledy-piggledy like it is now.
One thing I'm really appreciating about the space is how like a lake house it is. Though they are mostly painted white (except the steel frame which is black) the rafters and beams are exposed, and when it rains the corrugated metal roof is absolutely wonderful. I've always wanted to live in a barn, minus the animal muck. This seems a nice step in that direction.
One of my big pet peeves in home design: that embedded non-slip surface on the floor of bathtubs. Grrrrr.
It doesn't matter how fastidious you are, eventually, that stuff will turn a dookie-esque, mealey-mouthed gray color and it's a bear to get clean again. I HATE that. yeah, I understand the principle, but it seems so filthy to me. I'd rather have a handicapped rail in the stall than that crap on the floor of the tub. Hell, give me Rubbermaid Daisies. I'll take my chances on busting my lily-white arse. Even in nice hotels you visit, you see that nonslip stuff and it always seems on the grimy side to me- like there's no getting ahead of the dirt.
Anyway, getting settled into the new place, but I want a proper bath, but the tub has that grid of the yuck of former residents. I got some Mr. Clean bleach scrub pads and scrubbed and scrubbed. Well, at least they are a lighter gray now. Anyone know how to get those really clean?
Next house I have, I don't care if it's a tar-paper shack or a van down by the river, first thing I'm going to do is go out and get a proper bathtub and install it (myself, if I have to, with some hired muscle). If you ask me, being able to take a decent bath is the very mark of civilization, and one of the only consistent restoratives available to humankind. Of course, by "decent bath" I mean with an endless supply of hot water and a selection of bubbly soapy products that smell all nice and flowery.
Check out this tasty 1960s Calgon commercial:
The wind howled. The storm crackled on the mountains. Lightning prodded the crags like an old man trying to get an elusive blackberry pip out of his false teeth.
That right there is pure-dee funny.
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