image out of context
dear clusterflock
So, clusterflockstock IV.
Now that we’re nearing March, I’m wondering if anyone has an idea for where the group of us could get together this year. Based on what we’ve learned from previous years’ plannings, the when tends to be less important than the where.
Super Bowl Party Checklist
Michael Smith: Meatless chili (some ground meat substitute, beer, espresso, broth, spices, peppers, tofu, onion, and garlic).
Deron Bauman: Gluten-free vegan nachos.
Sheila Ryan: Refreshing lemon dessert.
Or: New England vs. Manhattan clam chowder.
Farewell, Ben Gazzara (1930-2012)
Ben Gazzara died this afternoon, on the anniversary of the death of John Cassavetes on February 3, 1989.
headline of the day, II
Paula Deen confirms that she has type 2 diabetes, unveils partnership with drug company
There’s really one reason,
and one reason only, that I put this photo here on clusterflock.
Joel, I love you, man, but that photo out of context was beginning to make my tummy sad every time I stopped by.
Besides, I know you love Culver’s.
Headline of the day
Super Exciting News on Super Polynomiality of LP Formulations of the TSP Polytope
Happy New Year, Y’all
Smootch.
Dear Santa
Thank you for the sweet hot air balloon ornament. Colors are perfect! And for the Chicago Christkindlmarket drinking boot, I’ll try it out a little later. This was the best Christmas ever!
Damar, Mon Amour (out of context)
In context: Starlingo ii.
Damar torn from the flock.
What is Damar? Who is Damar? What is Damar?
How To
I tied a tie after consulting You Tube. My efforts were acceptable, even though I did not master the Full Windsor.
I said I needed a photo before he took off to the pre-party. He was grumpy. “But why? You got a picture before I went to last year’s winter formal.”
Quote out of context
For every one person that comes forward with a false accusation, there are probably thousands who will say that none of that sort of activity ever came from Herman Cain.
bad day at the beauty salon
I’m gonna look just like those hot Spanish haircut models, become brown
and bodacious, grow some 7 inch fingernails painted bitch red and rake
them down the chalkboard of the job market’s soul.
(is it too early for maggie estep?)
30 for Thirty Days, The End.
The last day of my thirty-day project. I don’t claim it as art, just something completed.
We Won Backyard Garden of the Year
Kristopher designed this four years ago. Subcontractors did the structures and masonry, we did the garden. This year, the garden grew into the space it was meant to be.
Misery Bear Goes to Work
Thanks, Jenny.
The entire series is pretty great/sad, especially Misery Bear: Dawn of the Ted.
Three More, the Third Day…
Tussel kept the pedal to the floor, pushing through resistance. The dusky, snow-blown scenery in his frost-glazed periphery, rushing and slowing as gusting wind pushed against him. Tussel’s car the beleaguered transport toward a what he could not yet name a why for.
Three “perfect” self-contained sentences a day…
Tussel bore left on the wye West–North, West-northish. Nosing his old de Ville into wind-chill rushing across glacial tundra and down, from a thousand miles ahead. Forty-five miles an hour, nine miles a gallon, Tussel gripped the wheel, leaned into the accelerator, pressing the head-wind.
I already screwed up. They’re not “self-contained.”
photo out of context
Miss Lucy
is becoming Mrs. Lucy today. On Thursday, I helped her get her hen on, in a swanky hotel bar.
I’m immensely honored to be attending her and Ross’s wedding, and the succeeding reception-crawl. I will bring a real camera to that.
Read more
Earthquakes and Hurricanes
Irene roughed up my flowers and our psyches. Both are recovering nicely. As the storm moved toward us Friday night, we popped out to the John Prine concert. We sat on the expansive lawn of northern Virginia’s Wolf Trap concert pavilion. People were mellow, nibbling picnic food, drinking wine, chastened by a week of unexpected earthquakes and then, what next, a hurricane.
Night settled in and I pulled my wrap around me. I was carried away by the opening act, British singer/guitarist Richard Thompson. I closed my eyes and soared. He was dynamite, pumped up maybe by the hurricane mustering strength in the Atlantic. Then the Iowan bolted. He’d gotten a call — Home Depot, a shipment had arrived, the backup sump pump might be in. He was in natural disaster mode. So we left, rushed for the depot. I didn’t mind. The Iowan had talked me into going to the concert. I would have sat at home working and worrying. I got to see Thompson, I’d seen Prine several times. I got home and readied for the next day.
There was no sump pump backup (but of course). I went to bed, got up early on Saturday and shoveled copy all day as the winds blew and rains slammed. The Iowan went next door for happy hour, hurricane parties are big here. He was looking out the window when a big limb crashed down on the neighbors’ car. Later, the wind knocked down half of my “green screen” on the back porch, my outdoor living room, a mesh netting of climbing plants I put in to replace the running bamboo (!) the ambassador’s wife placed there as privacy for the (now gone) hot tub. The Iowan said “we’ll fix it in the morning.” But he got on the phone, and I got my little hammer and nails and slipped outside. I climbed up on the white wicker settee and tap tap tap in the wind and rain and set it to rights before the yelling started: “GET IN HERE WHAT ARE YOU DOING WE ARE HAVING A HURRICANE!”
Finally, to bed around midnight to sleep in fits and starts. The Iowan stayed up, prowling the blue house, stacks of old towels at the ready to fight off any water encroachment from the not-so-finished side of the basement to the other. I found the stub of a cigar on the porch the next day, dregs of red wine in a crystal stem on a side table next to the back door. I could see him in the mind’s eye, leaving the the covered back porch, stalking across the open deck, glaring into the black sky, pelted by rain but staring Irene down, daring her, don’t even think about it.
Sunday. Rainy but calmer. We were still standing, a few small tree limbs down (thank you, my talented tree trimmer). The sump pump held. We never lost power. I worked into the early evening.Sunday night. Drained.
We’ve had a week.
“They are tearing out part of the heart of Buenos Aires”
The interior of the historic Cafe Richmond was gutted a couple of weeks ago; a spot once frequented by Jorge Luis Borges and Graham Greene may be replaced by a Nike Store.
The plight of the Richmond has dominated local media since the cafe’s insides were gutted last Monday morning. Apparently to ensure it could not be returned to its former splendour even if the local government rules against the Nike shop, the Richmond was emptied of its historical interior, right down to its grandiosely comfortable Chesterfield wingback leather armchairs, in a 3am raid. The movers took the precaution of pulling down the security camera on the front of the building first.
“It’s against the law,” said Monica Capano of the city’s Heritage Preservation Commission. “The Richmond is one of the city’s emblematic landmarks.”
For a personal view: Oh, no: La Richmond by my friend Charlie.
Thinking of you, Clusterflock!
Went down the rabbit hole…
…following organ music tonight.
Again, I wish there were an “I’m sorry” category.
tweet of the day
