Clipping Service
It's so Saigon here. I'm outside a cafe in Huntingdon Valley called Santiago's, where relief comes in the form of the occasional passing bus. My wife is some place cool nearby, getting her hair done. I'm the driver, killing time. I feel like we're 90. The fact is, she's three weeks into a new hip, and all is working well enough that I'm not jinxing anything by mentioning it.
She's off meds. Down from four legs to three. Not ready for a marathon, but able to fold clothes, which has been my duty among others for the past 21 days. I've been the wife as best I can, and for all of you who work outside the house, as well as provide full custodial care for a husband and children, my hat is off to you. This is work.
The boys keeping asking if there are any clean socks. The dog can't understand why, at 11, she walks faster than my wife. I'm just happy to know her pain is gone, and anything else is manageable, even cleaning the dryer lint while talking to my editor while the doorbell rings and the dog is wondering what part of Louis the mailman tastes best.
Yes, a windy start to my mid-day post of diversions, but you never know when words start flying out of your head like winged monkeys, so you do your best to get it down. If any of you were wondering why Blinq felt a little, I don't know, distracted? the past couple of weeks, this has been the reason. We're back on track and sweating in suburbia, overhearing cell phone conversations about doing laundry and making bank deposits.
Just in time, to catch The Chap.
It's a British magazine, found via Metafilter, where a member named Orange Swan helpfully added the following link to its vestibule, which is what a Chap might call the home page:
"The web site you are about to enter contains words and images that may induce excessive languidity and an increase in levels of panache, leading to an overall rise in self-esteem. So sink into your deepest armchair, pour yourself a gin and tonic, light a cigarillo, and prepare to join the sophisticated world of The Chap." Being a Chap is, apparently, much more than just an excuse to wear a fedora and spats. The proper Chap has a Manifesto and a valet, shops at the Chap Emporium, and possibly practices the gentle art of househusbandry.
I'm not sure of its audience, but perhaps it's the person who wrote this.
And now for something completely different
Citizen Mom shows what she has been doing with her free time. Reading the Inquirer's op-ed piece on television sit-com cliches, then telling the author a thing or two he missed.
Kentucky bans porn and Bible studies from public employees' computers.
Silent Velcro? No, something even more beautiful.
Courtesy of Pink Lemonade Diva comes the winningly bad writing from this year's Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest:
Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.
And finally for now, Johnny Goodtimes, Philadelphia's Quizzomeister and publicity dog travels to Washington, D.C. to host a game in the nation's capital, and feels right at home. Johnny has found himself quite the scam. He's traveling across the country for Traffic.com's web site, blogging all the way.