Spitball Army

This year I pledged to make good on my internet yapping and mail Christmas cards, something I haven’t done for many, many years. It turned out to be a pleasantly satisfying experience.

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When I look at the ocean, I want to gargle,…

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I received an e-mail from a daily reader of this blog. In it, the reader complained of this blog’s recent infusion of political content. The reader’s note referred to it as a “disgusting trend.”

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Eventually, in that retail business mileau, I had to tell the community, “Thanks, but no thanks,” for that financial black hole to nowhere. If I really wanted a financial black hole, I’d dig it myself.

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At this point in the monologue, Gray has met with realtor Jamie d’Angelo at least once to investigate purchasing his decrepit cabin in the mountains, thinking that it would make an ideal, rustic setting, perfect for inspiring his writing career. Upon closer inspection, the house is rife with serious problems, including – but not limited to – a furnace in the attic, a shifting foundation, and a porch that is travelling away from the building. Gray has asked d’Angelo to arrange repairs to the home, while at the same time soliciting some of the same people to do the work.

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They put the patient under anesthesia and cut away a piece of the skull just above the tumor. They then awaken the patient, and probe the area around the tumor to see exactly which parts of the brain are crucial for normal functioning.

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Alleviate all that pent up aggression by violently and repeatedly stabbing Fred through the heart…

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One of the impressions that the book left me with – the first time – was how quixotically romantic it would be to spend lazy afternoons in a Spanish outdoor cafe sipping port and reading the racing columns.

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I sat at one of the tables and looked at the pictures on the wall. There was one panel of rabbits, dead, one of pheasants, also dead, and one panel of dead ducks. The panels were all dark and smoky-looking. There was a cupboard full of liqueur bottles. I looked at them all.

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