Just get some Christmas lights and a staple gun and go to town.
Cows escape after semi-trailer crash →
Hat tip to Beth for this one. I thought maybe a semi-trailer crashed into a fence. But the trailer was carrying the cows. 10 died, 3 were euthanized on the scene, and 40 were loosed, of the 101 extant cattle making their way to Kansas. All of this very close to where I work and study, in South Bend. In other news, I’m commenting on a story draft for workshop tomorrow, listening to rain,...
Logorrhea for the Queer Right
In A.J.’s first year of law school a closeted male classmate fell hopelessly in love with him. Let’s call him Arnie. Young Arnie was not passing for straight—even my busted gaydar had no problem detecting his sensibilities, and what amounted to an oozy manipulative over-reaching. The young man had asked A.J. several times to dinner “just to pick his brain”; and, pending...
Since I don’t have Kate around, I’ll dance with Kahlua in a crippling tuck for most of the afternoon.
SPIKED/SPICED APPLE CIDER RECIPE!
DEAR TODD & KATIE, THIS IS HOW I DO: 1 Bottle Kombucha Tea 1 Handle Spiced Rum (High Proof) 1 Jug Apple Cider 2 Cups Fresh Cranberries 2 Cups Fresh Apple (Empire preferred, never McIntosh) 3 Sticks Cinnamon (Maybe 5?) 1 Fist of Cloves Intemperate Amount of Fresh Ground Ginger Dash All-Spice Dash Ground Cumin Kernels of Black Pepper, Why Not? Merlot/Shiraz for Color (To Get Brew...
In Dining Room Listening to Housemate in Living...
And he’s a real fucking asshole.
Speaking on Behalf of the Subaltern
Dear Jeremy, I saved our Facebook conversation about rocket fire and the Dutch. Hopefully I’ll get around to shaping these fine raw materials into the educated textures of an anti-war short story! Or at least a very sappy personal essay. You introduced the topic by describing the mountains around post, from which rockets are lobbed. “In fact as soon as our plane touched down we got...
Is a DJ I didn’t know existed until last night.
I should say that this is the scene every evening when I get done with my run—my arms are not unsensually licked clean. (It looks like I’m crying. I’m not crying. Grad school isn’t that bad, geesh.)