( shorter takes than usual )

And with that, we get this show on the road. Longer entry tomorrow.

That is tap-dancerly all.

Well, it is raining.

*twinkle twinkle*

( random silly Metropolis )

Raining! Time to go for a walk.

That is, affectionately, all.

( random interesting Metropolis )

Let's see:

Poem = For an Amorous Lady.

Editorial = The Cost of Smarts. Er, what?

*headscratch*

And, apparently, poor is the new rich. Mind-boggling.

I suppose I should eat something. Take care.

That is pensively all.

( random bemused Metropolis )

In poetry today, Longfellow speaks of Night.

The article that's breaking my brain this morning involves local grocery options.

First of all, I simply don't get the persistent "competition with Cleveland" thing. So Cleveland has a bigger store than we do. We're not Cleveland.

Also, if you really take a good look at it, we have a heck of a fine store. Are we really to be pitied because we don't have 24 rows of prepared meats? Should we put on sackcloth and ashes because we only have 21 bins of olives, as opposed to 36? That's the detail that's really breaking my brain ce matin: 21. Bins. Of olives. 21. Twenty. Plus one. Bins. Of. Olives.

*vanishes in puff of smoke*

*reconstitutes*

Call me judgmental, if you like, but it seems to me that something, somewhere, has gone terribly wrong here if we are sincerely considering ourselves deprived because we "only" have one Whole Foods, and it's sooooo much smaller, with fewer amenities, etc. In the face of worldwide starvation, that seems just a teensy bit insane.

It also begs the question, what is enough? Let's say we get a bigger store, or a second store, and 50 rows of prepared meats, and 100 bins of olives, and chair massages, and a mariachi band that plays for you while 700 virgins brew your free-trade coffee and sing praises to you for being a wise and judicious consumer, skilfully executing iambic hexameter in their songs. Is that enough? Where would it end? Do you see why I'm a little afraid to leave my house in the mornings?

*worries*

Is it wrong to be happy with what you have? I don't mean stop striving for better things. I'm just questionning the definition of "better."

Oh yeah, definitely time to make some art. A bientot, mes chers etoiles.

That is perplexedly all.

( random sunny Metropolis )

Today's poem, Posthumous, is a wonderful example of how a poet can take a teensy truth and illuminate it so that you really think about it. People do, of course, linger on long after they do, in many ways various-curious.

For those with the time and/or inclination, a profile of Louise Hay.

The local feature story is a bit of a weeper. It's so not fair. Who gets cancer at eighteen? What the frell is the freaking point of that? Perhaps to shock us out of our own complacency. Or maybe it has nothing to do with us at all, except in the sense that it has to do with all of us.

*sighs*

Time for breakfast. Have finally found a good use for one particular decorative jar I wish to keep: if I take it to the co-op, I can fill it full of tasty things like pumpkin granola. Who knew?

That is cheerfully all.

( random Saturday Metropolis )

Today's poem = Fruit of Loneliness. I want to make jelly from the fruit of loneliness and spread it on my peanut-butter toast.

Back to the business of rebuilding. See you tomorrow.

That is quietly all.

( random culinary Metropolis )

Poem = John Updike, Slum Lords.

On the local front, more handwringing and punditry over our friends, the wedding brawlers.

*headdesk*

Y'know, I'm probably not the most qualified person to comment on these matters. I still don't understand, though, why this is a front-page story for any other reason than to make the rest of us feel better, and allow us to project our own grapplings with matters marital onto a distant, safe target. JMHO, YMMV.

Oooh, yeah, that left a sour taste in my mouth. Methinks I should go do something pleasant. Like a crossword puzzle. An extremely difficult, head-scratching crossword puzzle.

That is amusedly-resignedly all.

( random rainy Metropolis )

Today's poem = Her Legacy. Bless the Aunt Cleones of the world. And please, let me be just like them.

It was, apparently, a slow news day in Metropolis, because this story made the front page. I suppose you could argue that semi-public brawling is news. However, given the circumstances, it seems to me that this was more about public shaming and titilation than sincere reportage. On the other hand, you could argue that the article's subjects are in sore need of a little public shaming. But on that third hand, which we have not got, don't we all have something better to do than fuss and cluck judgmentally over two people who are clearly pretty screwed up?

*sighs*

Have spent a pleasant morning so far making art, and reading about Italian wines. Apparently, the rule of thumb for wine and food pairing is, "If it grows together, it goes together." Meaning, if you're serving a dish from a specific region, you can serve it with any wine from that region and the pairing will be just fine. Neat, eh? I do so love relatively useless information; one never knows when it will come in handy. And I still harbor hopes of throwing parties again. As my apartment slowly transforms into something approaching welcoming, I can feel the return of optimism.

But first, have got to finish re-watching my way through Sports Night. Kind of a moral imperative.

A bientot, mes chers.

That is quietly delightedly all.

( random gladness Metropolis )

Levity break!

( An engineer's guide to cats )

( soundtrack for a fifth cell regeneration )

I can't decide of the timing of today's poem is ironic, snarky, or perfectly innocent.

*shrugs*

Recession diet, eh? Perspective is a funny thing. There are people who live like this all the time, by choice. There are people who were raised like this, and either really took to it, or fled into the arms of creature comforts as soon as their adult incomes permitted. I just don't know how I feel about living in a world where shopping at Wal-Mart is a sacrifice (as opposed to, say, a crime against labor unions).

Now, let's go do this thing properly.

*handdust*

That is joyfully all.

( random thoughtful Metropolis )

kittengirly sent me this piece about how things are back home. You could argue that the needs of the group trump the desires of the individual, but this sort of response is emblematic of the way so many of us from that part of the country were raised: what's yours is yours, and you'll die rather than give it up. Understandable, when one often has so little to start with.

On a vaguely related note, Tim Nolan offers us a Prayer Chain.

That first pitch was right across the plate, but the second one's a bit of a slider.

*g*

And with that, off to have more adventures, large and small. A bientot.

That is deliciously all.

New icon courtesy of dontfeedthetiki, and a conversation about how contemporary video gamers are just plain wusstastic.

*twinkle twinkle*

( random whimsical Metropolis )

Today's poem = amusing.

This book = intriguing. Interview w. author, followed by excerpt.

( random short takes Metropolis )

Must dash. A bientot.

That is energetically all.

( random thoughtful Metropolis )

Poem du jour = House, Billy Collins. It's a repeat, but a darned good one. Billy Collins = love.

*fuzzles*

Interesting language/perception experiments. Also, "leebish" is just plain fun to say. Methinks shall steal it.

*g*

In matters ridikkalus, scuppies. Come on.

*eyeroll*

Your heroine hates how everything needs a cutesy name. Seriously. This is actually kind of ironic, in light of the language experiments, above. But why is it necessary to figure people out and peg them into categories that we can then conveniently label? People are ever so much more interesting than any arbitrary boxes into which other people put them. Or, for that matter, into which they put themselves.

Alternet had a treasure trove today; observe:

Happy Earth Day. All rhetoric aside, here's some concrete-practical.

Yet another book for my waitlist. Most amusing in this excerpt? The list of what you can and cannot say in a book published by Steeple Hill.

Candid commentary from a sex worker who is not ashamed. Not for the prudish, and probably not work-safe in most environments. Some may find themselves delighted by the segue into the erotic, as the essay draws to a close.

*glances at clock*

Plenty of time to perform my civic duty, and, perhaps, create a little more art before the daily. But first, we dance! Because it's a sunny Tuesday morning in Metropolis, and Elvis Costello beckons imperiously.

*g*

That is fancifully all.

( random energetic Metropolis )

Danica Patrick becomes the first woman to win a major American auto race, demonstrating definitively that women can do utterly pointless things just as well as any man can!

*giggles*

No, seriously, good for her. Everybody's got different dreams. You wanna drive around in circles really fast? Go you, girlfriend. Seriously.

*coffee cup salute*

Of potential interest to certain segments of my audience, for various reasons: of lasers and quitting smoking.

Jill Filipovic grouses about the traditional First Lady bake-off. Here's an idea: why don't we ask the women, in future, if they want to do it? If they do, roo hay. If not, we dump it this time. I always get slightly annoyed when somebody stridently aseerts that anything to do with wimmin's traditional activities is somehow repressive or anti-feminist. You can be a great feminist and still cherish the traditional female arts. The difference is, in this day and age, you can choose those arts you want to explore. Um, well, if you're of a certain economic class and, um...where was I going with this again?

Okay, so it's complicated. But swapping recipes doesn't automatically make you a doormat, and it's not a signifier of anything more than, possibly, here's a little tradition we might not need anymore. And if we don't need it, great: more time in the kitchen for me, and folks like me, who genuinely enjoy the act of creation in that particular oeuvre.

New review book. I know these things are random, but I still get a little frisson of pleasure when I open the envelope and it's a Name author. It's a pleasure and an honor to get a peek at a talented person's labor of love a teensy bit before everybody else.

*fuzzles*

Off to make mischief. A bientot, mes chers.

That is happily all.

( random quiet Metropolis )

That is, fondly, all.

( random calmer Metropolis )

Under the heading of amusing-disturbing, creepy playground decorations. On top of all the other really good reasons to go abroad, I now want to go abroad and see some of these terrors my ownself. Especially in Prague. Jeepers...

*giggles*

Ai yai, Potter encyclopedia lawsuit kerfuffle. It's all over the map, and it's ugly. Perhaps that's why I haven't really been following it. If he's lifted too much of the canon, it's got to be nixed. On the other hand, if she's trying to prevent a librarian from creating a proper encyclopedia, well...

*sighs*

The personal is political, whether we like it or not. I suppose the problem is I'd have to READ the darned thing. Which is why I question the whole not-having-a-jury. Get a panel of fandom up there, and this would be clear-cut.

*1/2 jk*

Poem = Who Will Know?

Now that the hall closet has room for my things, am going to put them there. We shall, henceforth, refer to it as the craft closet.

Sun, wind, errands, reading, go.

That is moodily all.

( random short takes Metropolis )

O, Medazzaland, Medazzaland...7.5, then out. A bientot.

That is bemusedly all.

( random short takes Metropolis )

My travels take me afield this morning, a fate I accept with only a smidge of grumbling, because there will, quite possibly, be tasty things. There had better, actually. Otherwise, somebody's got some explaining to do.

That is wickedly all.

( random short takes Metropolis )

Dear Lucky cat: you're nearly three, and yet, because your brain is the size of a walnut, you still think you're a kitten. Si charmante!

And you, mon Smoky-boo precieux...it's darling how you alternate between snuggling at my feet and at my head. And the pawing at my nose, while occasionally owchy, is a most agreeable alarm clock, all things considered.

Coffee, breakfast, outfit, go, avec grumbling.

That is somewhat tiredly all.

( random really short takes Metropolis )

That is scatterdashedly all.