The Cow and the Dog (a Fable)

The cow and dog were best friends. They had been close companions for longer than any of the other animals could remember. Even the draft horse was unable to recall a time before this great friendship.

“I am pleased to see such harmony,” the draft horse said, “but it is unusual just the same. No good can come of it.”

The donkey said nothing and continued feeding. He cared only for fodder and pulling his little cart. The barn cat did not speak—she believed herself to be invisible and did not want to reveal her position. The chickens scratched and hopped around the dusty courtyard in front of the stock barn. They didn’t say anything because they are so incredibly small-minded and stupid.

Read more

headline of the day

Dentist pulled out ALL boyfriend’s teeth after he dumped her (and new girlfriend leaves him because of his empty mouth)


“You didn’t get yourself completely blasted last night, which helped.”


“One little more bite of lasagna, and it’s all gonna be gone.”


“That was good lasagna, and it came with a salad.”


“Are you gonna be awake enough to get home?”

April Holy Foolish Palm Sunday Interview with Patti Smith

An hour-long interview with Patti Smith, endearing and, dare I say, inspirational.

I liked her music less and less after the first brilliant album; that much said, I worshipped her when I was in my early twenties and went to see her perform every chance I had. She was brilliant live. (And I have one of her guitar picks from the Radio Ethiopia tour.)

At bottom I have always admired her terrifically. She is tremendously endearing in this interview — both genuinely, unaffectedly girlish at 65 and mature and wise.

Watch or listen to this interview even if you do so in bits and pieces or while tending to other things.

Offline Friend Request EULA

By my (for reasons that will soon become obvious) Twitter-only friend @ChrisKubica:

For those who asked, here is the EULA to be my friend

If you are my friend offline, you agree:


Your stuff is my stuff. Your food is my food. I can sleep on your bed. I can give you kittens. I can take your kittens. I can play your music and your apps. You will provide cuddling within 4-hour’s notice. I can ride your dog even if he or she is too small when compared to my size. I can eat whatever is in your fridge or on your counter. I can sit on your counter. I can ask you questions. You will provide all answers in writing, orally and on 8-track cassette. I can wear your various clothing. I can has cheeseburgers. I can show you unicorns. I can believe in rainbows. You will believe in rainbows or pretend to believe in rainbows when I am about. I can have your milk and your jewelry. I can call you good and bad names. I can rock in your hammock and borrow your car. You may guard my house. You should buy me marshmallows. You will buy me books, read me books and lend me your books indefinitely. You will lend me everything indefinitely. You will provide me with five copies of the entire universe. . . .

If, having read the EULA, you wish to request offline friendship with Chris: Anyone also not on Facebook, feel free to use my offline Friend Request template (PDF)

Update: Unfriend Request Form

from the moderated comments spam

I actually have found loads of useful points on your web site About Donkeys And Weddings

smoke signals

from the comments

Carole Corlew:

War correspondent Marie Colvin was a swashbuckler long before the black eyepatch. She performed daring feats for a living, then partied like a rockstar. She collected men easily and left them behind. A woman told me once that the French people in the Paris bureau could not understand Marie, “in French or English. Because of the New Jersey accent.” The remark puzzled me. Marie did not have an accent. She was a fast talker, and in the days before she contributed broadcast reports was something of a mumbler. I know now she was in a hurry. She had only a few years and was rushing toward her fate.

In fact, the story goes that when chided about her smoking habit, she insisted tobacco would not be the thing that got her in the end.


Lou Carr predicted Marie wouldn’t last as a foreign correspondent. He said she would end up back in Oyster Bay, married and driving around a station wagon loaded with kids. He was wrong. But maybe that’s where Marie is headed, across the way, with the 2-year-old boy whose so quiet death broke her heart a few hours before she joined him.

From Fassbinder’s Warnung vor einer heiligen Nutte (Beware of a Holy Whore)

Recommended: Both the film and the activity encouraged by Ray Charles in this scene.

Let’s go get stoned.

anecdote retold as a text made into a post

Amy’s dance teacher, Tambra, is in her eighties.

When she married her second husband, she’d been alone for a while, and was used to sharing her bed with her dogs, two dachshunds.

The new husband didn’t want to sleep with the dogs, but instead of getting the dogs to sleep elsewhere, they moved to a guest room and gave the dogs the master bed.

The guest room began to be referred to as the sex room.

One day Tambra was changing sheets when a friend of hers, Hassie, called. Hassie asked Tambra what she was up to, and Tambra said, “Oh, fixing up the sex room.”

A little while later, Hassie ended up in the hospital, and Hassie’s brother, Cecil, went to visit her.

In the waiting room at the hospital was another woman who went to Tambra’s church named Ruth Ann Parish. Apparently, Ruth Ann Parish was Tambra’s spitting image.

Cecil crept up behind her, leaned in, and said, “I hear you’ve got a sex room.”

Tout le monde a ses raisons

Ce qui est terrible sur cette terre, c’est que tout le monde a ses raisons. The awful thing about life is this: everyone has their reasons.

An oft-quoted line from Jean Renoir’s great film La règle du jeu (The Rules of the Game).

A line that has been interpreted both as caustic and as one of the saddest, wisest, truest observations in all cinema. I’m inclined toward both interpretations.

“Everyone has their reasons” came to mind this morning in light of the weekend’s public airing of a sad personal rift between people who have been central to clusterflock.

Although I have come to know these dear folks outside of the site’s confines, I’ve not sought to learn what led to the breach. Like Casey, “I figure my knowing about the personal conflict isn’t going to do anyone much good.”

The awful thing about life is this: everyone has their reasons.

Farewell, Ben Gazzara (1930-2012)

Ben Gazzara died this afternoon, on the anniversary of the death of John Cassavetes on February 3, 1989.

from the comments

Josh Weichhand:

I thought this was really sad at first, but in thinking it through, it also makes sense. In a country that no longer makes things, I suppose one of our last commodities that can be bought and sold is our attention.

Owlet Caterpillars of Eastern North America

My same friend Susan who brought us the critically acclaimed Omega Institute in Your Pants, 2010 edition today supplied the following list, from the book Owlet Caterpillars of Eastern North America by David L. Wagner, Dale F. Schweitzer, J. Bolling Sullivan, and Richard C. Reardon:

Sordid Snout
The Herald
Feeble Grass Moth
Dead-wood Borer
The Betrothed
The Little Wife
Serene Underwing
The Consort
Dejected Underwing
Inconsolable Underwing
Tearful Underwing
Sad Underwing
The Penitent
Sappho Underwing
Youthful Underwing
Darling Underwing
Read more

Repost of a Post Past

Going down the rabbit-hole of Cece’s post. Great rememberies here, following “flockers.”

Carole Corlew.

headline of the day

Couple caught trying to blow up car with flaming TAMPONS

Last night I dreamed

that a long-time amour was a barn owl.

from the comments

Carole Corlew:

A ground crewman who worked on my father’s WWII plane told me their B-26 Marauder was known as the “whore of the skies.” I feel like I can’t say the rest of his quote on this family wire. It crashed a lot. So use your imagination. This was about 15 years ago, during a ceremony for a large marker with the names of the men associated with Flak Bait when it was displayed at Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum. This old fella said this to me right in front of Miss Nell, who smiled politely and said, “Okay, well now…” and took my arm and hustled ME off.

The Cake That Makes Our Family

Read between the lines of an old family recipe and you’re liable to read the story of the family itself. The scrawled marginalia and cooking stains, the collective memory of shared feasts—they might as well be alleles in the genome. Maybe it’s the chicken soup your aunt makes by the gallon during flu season, or the roast your mother overcooks every Easter. Maybe, if you’re lucky, your dad has taught you the secret to a perfect Old Fashioned, which he learned from his uncle, who learned it from his bookie. For my family, the recipe that defines us as a tribe, and whose origins best reflect our idiosyncrasies, is my grandfather’s babka.

Read more

12 Indicted On Hate Crimes Charges For Hair Cutting Assaults Led By Break-Off Amish Group

I think this is my favorite story of 2011.

headline of the day

Is Incest Wrong?

tweet of the day

Clusterflockers with Children…

…is there a book you wouldn’t want your children to read?

Excerpt with minimal context

She looked up at him with a question in her eyes. “Did you get the graham crackers?”

“Yes,” he answered.

She moved toward him in her old slippers. He thought they looked like rabbits.

from the comments

Daryl Scroggins:

For me, holding a grudge is like expecting the world to conform to my view of it. So I don’t hold them. But everybody encounters the stuff that grudges are made of, and when I do it always leaves me with a sense that a mystery is hovering at the edge of my vision. My impulse always is to make things right, but experience has shown me that my desire for that is not always sufficient cause to make it happen. For me, moving on can often just mean becoming very good at looking away, and away, and away.

« Previous PageNext Page »