...orders deluge upon the Sahara of online journals that they may exuberantly send blessed nubile tendrils genuflecting at Sol?
f course, there are ways the Journal of JEL could improve, if only Eric would be willing to borrow from the example of other online journalists. If he combined the short straightforward sentences of Going Through the Motions with the dark coiled passions of The Meyhem Project, with a dash of Andrew Denyes for truely inspired randomness, we could make that matzo light & fluffy in no time.
But I still want to know, who is this Gertrude Stein that provides a trenchant clear mind that in whatever fashion, let us announce, orders deluge upon the Sahara of online journals that they may exuberantly send blessed nubile tendrils genuflecting at Sol?
Bill Clinton, on the other hand, governs based on poll data.
et again, today I drove the Dodge Dart on a mission to visit my folks at their little farm south of Staunton. This time the intent was mainly to install System 8.0 on my mother's Macintosh.
My Dad and I were discussing politics as I raided the magic refrigerator. He said that, in his opinion, Bill Clinton is even more disgusting than Ronald Reagan. At least Ronald Reagan was for real. He believed in the right wing policies he supported. Bill Clinton, on the other hand, governs based on poll data. I immediately came up with a case in point: If polls suggested that the average American supported the orderly disposal of the Jews, Bill Clinton would be cutting ribbons at modern versions of Auschwitz and Treblinka. It's hard to call Bill Clinton a leader given that all he has ever done is conform his policies to the most short-sighted average American whim, from Internet decency
While we're on the subject of disgusting things supported by Bill Clinton's Joe Average constituency, take a look at the horrific picture at right, excerpted by my Dad from the Staunton Daily News Leader. People are really coming together in support of those squeaky-clean all-American septuplets. Why, it's just like a barn raising, I hear tell. Evidently the damage of their added burden to health, educational and eco-systems isn't even quite enough; they have to release balloons and choke some sea turtles as well!
My pychotic brother, Don, is an especially big fan of the Green Valley Book Fair. He goes there in search of books about dinosaurs, slimy invertebrates, evil dictators, and military hardware. When he heard we were going, he naturally invited himself to come along. It's never much fun going anywhere in public with Don, but the GVBF is one of his few pleasures in life, so of course we humoured him. Since he only had four dollars to spend, he grabbed a rake and bent to the task of gathering bags of leaves around the house in a last minute effort to earn money. The heavy accumulations of Chinquapin Oak (Quercus muhlenbergii) leaves in the yard constitute a fire hazard, and the leaves can be used as bedding for the several goats who call the barn their retirement home, so my Dad is always willing to pay Don to rake them up.
The leaves can be used as bedding for the several goats who call the barn their retirement home.
I hadn't napped at all since getting off work, so I was fairly sleepy on the ride up I-81.
When we got out of the car in one of the book fair's several parking lots, Don immediately ran off in the direction of the main warehouse. It was a sadly hysterical sight to behold: a grown man with a bushy red beard in a musty, filthy dark pastel blue jacket and reflector-adorned backpack running with the excitement of a four year old. When making such bee lines in the past, he's been known to knock over little old ladies who stood in his way. "We don't know him" Hoagie joked as we walked much more leisurely behind him.
When making such bee lines in the past, he's been known to knock over little old ladies who stood in his way.
But Hoagie has her own unique ways of being embarrassing. She was interested in getting some computer books to help her learn about the Internet. So, of course, as we approached the computer books, she was chattering loudly about what to get. For some reason, I like to play it cool around books, treat them with respect, talk quietly, that sort of thing. I don't know why, perhaps I was a librarian in a former incarnation. Anyway, so I'm sort of wanting to hide already when suddenly my mother lets out a big old fart as casually as you please. It sounded a little like a floorboard squeaking, but that wasn't what the young man standing beside me was thinking; he turned around and looked to see who had done it. I started laughing. So did my mother. "Don't put that in your musings!" she chuckled.
I don't know why, perhaps I was a librarian in a former incarnation.
In an almost 19th Century scene, Don came by briefly, stalking like Rasputin through a group of hapless Amish girls1 on his way to beg an additional 50 cents off of me. I pretended I didn't know him and that he was a escaped mental patient. Hoagie caved in and gave him the change.
Too bad Kansas-flatland-inspired developers continue their landmoving assaults on the roots of Betsy Bell.
n the drive back south, we stopped in downtown Staunton. Staunton is such a pretty little town. It doesn't have all that dowdy Jeffersonian architecture so common in Charlottesville; it's more in the style of Gothic Revival, with gargoyles, lacy adornments and, best of all, spires. Staunton is a city of spires. Since the downtown sits on the side of a big hill, the spires are arranged like spectators at a football game. I miss seeing that sort of thing on the occasions when I need to transact "official business." I hadn't been there in a long time, but of course nothing much had changed, except that the sidewalks are being replaced with bricks. It looks good that way, definitely more Wizard of Oz. Too bad Kansas-flatland-inspired developers continue their landmoving assaults on the roots of Betsy Bell, one of the two tall forested hills within the city.
Hoagie took me to "Co-ART," the new artists' co-operative in downtown Staunton. It's a big space on the ground floor of one of the buildings on Beverly Street. I was impressed by how big it is: several thousand square feet. And the rent is only $800 per month. With 45 members, the cost per member is only $20 per month. Over in Charlottesville, the artists' co-operative known as bozART (where I used to be marketing manager) is on perhaps a fifth as much floor space, and that costs $700 per month. Staunton has such incredibly cheap rent that it can evidently support much larger artists' co-operatives than are possible in Charlottesville.
I'm still scared of anomaly-inflicting spiders who might still dwell up in the bunk area.
The inside of Co-ART is still mostly unfinished, but it's coming along nicely. Hoagie gets to be a proud mother hen about it all, since it was her idea.
Back in the Shaque, I napped for about an hour on the couch downstairs (I'm still scared of anomaly-inflicting spiders who might still dwell up in the bunk area).
fter I'd gathered up all my loot and raided the pantry for food, I drove back to Charlottesville under the cover of darkness. Darkness was important; I still don't have a valid inspection sticker.
Deya was just ordering a pizza when I arrived. I was kind of hungry, so I chipped in. While we waited for the pizza, we drank her Schlitzes (courteousy of Meghan Huddleston, Deya has a fake ID now!) and watched the Simpsons and Seinfeld. I'm liking Seinfeld more every time I see it. In the old days it used to be such a let down after the Simpsons.
The Downtown Artspace is having an opening at 5pm on Friday (the 5th), and it will feature inexpensive local photography. Both Hoagie and I intend to be there.
I made this term up a while ago and would like to introduce it to my readers:
doing the snail- giving a girl oral sex
1Amish girls are another of my fetishistic interests.