It seems an uncertain question; there are, after all, trivial occasions and results, but what of habituation? To the one, you say to the child, “I am going to [do this]. What do you think?” To the other, you say to the adult, “[The child] wants [this].” When it is what one intends to feed the child, perhaps this isn’t a particularly important distinction. But it really does feel, in other moments when you tell people what the child wants about various things, like a setup. And at some point amid the repetition it does occur to wonder: Is it that you don’t think I hear? Or do you really think telling a child something and then asking a binary question establishes what a child wants? To the one, we are all human. To the other, that this is not necessarily uncommon behavior is part of the point. Or the problem. The rest is less certain; perhaps there are occasions when the child says no, but on the occasions I do, in fact, hear, it seems a pretty predictable process.
Something goes here about the nights and days of getting older. It is one thing to be out of touch; to a certain degree that has nothing to do with age, and, on occasion, a matter not so much pride as relief. Still, though, I happened to find a piece of information interesting, but my daughter informs me that Spider Man soup has apparently always been a thing.
To the other, nothing ever begins.
Yet another holiday ruined.
In truth, there aren’t many holidays I enjoy celebrating with the rest of my society. I’m an American. Look at our big days. A couple of Christian days, three celebrations of genocide, and two borrowed cultural traditions we’ve managed to muck up into unrecognizable bacchinalia. St. Patrick’s Day is one of the latter.
I don’t mind the twist. I even look past the genocidal heritage, since we Americans don’t really care about all that and have our own chapters of morbid insanity to celebrate. St. Patty’s is a primarily a drinking holiday, like New Year’s Eve, MLK Day, and Cinco de Mayo.
And no, that wasn’t a joke about MLK Day.
Sorry. I wish it was.
The things we learn by watching. And sometimes all anyone needs is a witness.
Observations over the weekend:
(1) Adults talking about eating. One says he’s not hungry. The other tells him no, and proceeds to explain what he will eat and when.
(2) Someone announces his mobile phone is missing. The response is to remind him who he needs to call.
(3) A depressive explains a symptom of his malady; certain events can cause something very much akin to physical pain inside his skull—the signal to noise ratio is impossible. His own mother laughs.
What a world. What a world.
Yeah, I saw that. I heard that. And there is no fourth-frame smile. The punch line is sick.
Despite the many products that claim otherwise, using the term “chemical-free” is plain nonsense. Everything, including the air we breathe, the food we eat and the drinks we consume, is made of chemicals. It doesn’t matter if you live off the land, following entirely organic farming practises or are a city-dweller consuming just processed food, either way your surroundings and diet consists of nothing but chemicals.
Obviously, I need new friends.
No, really. That’s the kind of half-witted, deceptive excrement I can get from the local news. Thanks, guys. I effin’ don’t love you.
Lorch, Mark. “Five myths about the chemicals you breathe, eat and drink”. IFL Science. 26 June 2014.
To the one, we’re on cartoons at the moment. To the other, it’s been a while since we paused to sniff the rosebuds at Bug Martini. To the beeblebrox, it really is oddly timed; but then again, that’s not the kind of joke one sits on until November, lest it actually receive some rational thought, which in turn would discourage presentation. And, you know, hey, if I happened to be a dog, that I might count a fourth—and, incidentally, never leave the house for reasons best not discussed in polite company—it would be enough to say that I wish my brother George was here. Except I don’t have a brother named George.
And as to the brother I do have? Well, yeah. Raise a glass, dude.
Image credit: Detail of Adam Huber, Bug Martini.
There is a saying about a given band or musical sound: I’m not into it, but I wouldn’t change the station. There are, of course, sexist versions of it: Well, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed …. At any rate, we all know the joke, right? Somewhere in there we find Sierra Nevada Ruthless Rye.
Rugged and resilient, rye has been a staple grain for ages and its spicy black pepper-like flavor has been prized by distillers and brewers for centuries. Rye thrives in the harshest conditions and comes to life in Ruthless, a spicy and rugged IPA with fruity, citrus and herbal hop notes balanced with the dry spiciness of the rye, making the beer aggressive yet comforting to bolster against whatever the winter winds may bring.
At 6.6% ABV and 58 IBU, Ruthless is a properly nondescript beer. If we ever need to know about the subjectivity of beer ratings, consider that the seasonal IPA is presently carrying a 97 at RateBeer, but only an 87 at BeerAdvocate. Both these ratings are excessive.