Do you know why this is a bit short on prose today, and long on pictures? Because I have a piece due tomorrow for our Super Bowl Special Newspaper.
But, you say, that’s in February.
Yes. Yes it is. This is life in newspapers: your deadlines can be Next Year, and they can be five minutes from now. Most of my deadlines are set in stone, since I’m a columnist, but I always have other pieces floating around that land on a Tuesday or a Monday. It makes you work. I pity writers who don’t have deadlines.
“Novel due in August 2018” is not a deadline. It is a fervent wish, but it is not a deadline.
Not much to discuss anyway, right? I mean, I thought we’d still be talking about whether it’s okay to have Keurigs. I was waiting for that Keurig story to go all week so I could weigh in on behalf of my Keurig, and call it “The Keurigs of my Convictions,” but it got drowned in the bath by the Al Franken story.
I don’t like the guy at all, and that’s not based on politics but an experience with his extraordinary personal jerkiness. I don’t agree all the time with our other senator, but I like her, because she’s a decent person. Franken is an arrogant toad. I am amused that his sonorous pomposity has been pierced by the boob-grabbing photograph of something he thought was funny, because it cuts right to the heart of his self-conception.
He’s probably always thought he was a comic genius. He’s second-rate. If that. No one searches Netflix for “Al Franken comedy.” No one who watched SNL ever thought “oh wonderful! It’s Al Franken,” and no one ever said SNL was can’t-miss-TV this week because Al Franken was back.
I don’t think he should have to resign his Senate seat. That seems a bit much, but I didn’t make the rules. Did he say he doesn’t remember doing what he did? Because if I wrote a script so I could kiss a Playboy model, I think I’d remember.
Quite a bonfire, isn’t it. You might say a wienie roast.
And I wish i wasn't, but here we are. I've too much accumulated krep from the web and it needs dispersin'.
Buzzfeed isn’t making as much money as they thought, and their IPO will be delayed. It’s possible that there isn’t a total goldmine in posting illiterate junk for bored morons, or borons as they’re known in the trade. I like to collect these, because they sum up the children who write for the site.
It's lines like these that really pop on the resume.
Emily's probably just quoting mom here:
BuzzFeed is all about GOALS and things that ARE GOALS and TWEETS THAT ARE GOALS.
Amusing that this is a corporate account, and they feel the need to say Sh*t but remove the vowel, so no one thinks they're not a serious company.
Fluttery boy-men are also popular on the site:
That's the prefered style for masculine voices on the site.
Daughter keeps reminding me that it's not written for people like me, and I keep telling her she should be insulted that they think it's written for people like her.
Tweet from a comedian I follow:
You can understand why he might be perplexed; there's something eerie about this guy.
He didn't always sell Mexican food, you know.
Do you know what he did sell?
Even though the hand position is off?
Our weekly dog picture.
He went to obedience training this week; 12 week class. We have some new tools for making him behave. The instructor told my wife that if he jumps, just turn aside and ignore him.
That's one way to do it. There's another: I got a small water bottle, and set it on mist. I carried it around and gave him a shot when he leaped up.
It took two instances. He doesn't do it anymore.
It's finished. It opened Thursday. There was a party!
That's where I got the banner for today's Bleat. Didn't notice myself until later.
But. Better to judge it in the spring, when the sidewalk cafes are full, and people are sitting in the chairs. I'll give it this: It's deceptively stylish.
Yeah, you might say, really deceptive.
That's because the colors are neutral, except for the signature yellow. It'll wear better than the old version, the previous redesign; it dated poorly.
The things on the right change color, which adds excitement.
People will come for miles around to see them go from blue to red.
Anyway, it took forever and cost a lot - mostly to do some underground work that fixed century-old infrastructure, we're told. I like the fact that the street doesn't seem like a trench anymore, and the sidewalks are broad.
As I said, wait until spring.
Gildersleeve, the later years. Almost done.
Peary changed up the opening a little, and got a squeal of laughter out of one lady in the audience. You wonder if he was looking at her.
Request to the composer: "end the melody so it sets up a door slamming, okay?"
I assume they paid royalties for this one. Or was it in public domain?
"I'm just tapped this week; can I buy the rights to a song?"
AD: 1948. Meet Silent Sam.
The name's funny! Because he isn't. Silent. (Or funny.)
The sound of the late 60s; the look of the late 60s.
To some people, this is the sound of their young adulthood, at least as it was filtered through the mass culture. To me, it's the sound of the era that had evaporated just before I started to know what was going on.
It's the damned flutes.
That'll do; see you around! Have a capital weekend.