Early on in our relationship, Giff and I went out for dinner somewhere, and, as I am wont to do, I ate too much meat.
"I am full of meat," said in a shell-shocked voice, has become a common refrain–it's not funny enough to be an inside joke, but it is a common enough statement at the end of a nice meal wherein I eat too much meat.
However, I don't believe I have ever been as full of meat as I am right now. Eight of us shared some nice appetizers (crab claws! Steamed pork buns! The craziest apple/bacon salad! Some of the best brussel sprouts I've ever had!) and then, eight pounds of pork butt.
We finished the entire thing, but only barely.
[Pictures courtesy of Rich]
For the third year in a row, I am moving the last weekend in October. From a one bedroom apartment to a three bedroom, so that Giff, Buster, and I can all have a separate room for our massive piles of crap (for Giff and I, "crap" is figurative, but for Buster, she will most likely turn her room into a giant litter box). We are doubling our available space, so, if you're good, you might get invited to a party or two at our place. It's a nice neighborhood in Bed-Stuy, kind of a black Park Slope area with art galleries and nice restaurants completely inaccessible by anything that's not the A train. Scary to go to if you don't like to leave Manhattan, but there's a nice park where people play chess 24 hours a day, so it's probably not too bad.
Since we signing a lease on a new place, I finally feel comfortable talking about this.
My landlord, who lives in the building, has a disabled daughter. And I don't mean, "Mr. Lebowski is 'disabled'" type disabled. I mean that she's in her mid-teens and is unable to speak. She coos, and lows, and that's about it.
And she loves Christmas. She watches Christmas videos all year long.
There must be something about Christmas that makes me hate it so much, and make it all that she seems to live for. She gets up and dances with the Christmas musicals all the time.
No one was as good with his wand as Dumbledore
Apparently, the biggest news in the world is that J.K. Rowling thought of Dumbledore as gay.
Would it have killed her to actually put that in the story, rather than just revealing it as subtext half a year after she'd finished writing the books?
Not that anyone has anything close to sex in the Harry Potter books. Though theoretically Harry and Ginny fuck like bunnies, if the completely superfluous "20 years later..." scene at the end of the 7th book can be trusted.
And if you thought that previous paragraph should have come with a spoiler warning, you need to learn faster. If you're not done with the books by now, you have as much reason to complain about spoilers, as, say, someone watching The Sixth Sense or The Crying Game has to complain.
Catch the fuck up, people.
The most recent issue of the New Yorker contains a press-on tattoo. From Yellow Tail Vineyards.
A PRESS-ON TATTOO
FROM YELLOW TAIL!!!
IN THE NEW YORKER!
Straight Outta WBEZ in Chicago, Motherfuckers!
NWA and NPR are right next to each other as artists, on my iPod.
Matchbox 20 has a new album out?
"Exile on Mainstream."
Even though I'm one of the few people who doesn't love "Exile on Main Street" unconditionally, I still feel outraged by the rip-off title.
I will be, for the first time, participating in National Novel Writing Month, starting on November 1st. Is anyone else doing this (other than Giff and I)?