[image from The Toast]
He could not vary the length of his utterance and he could not cow himself to the laws of punctuating or naming for the ease of some imagined imaginary reader. It was cold in the writers room and he would make no fire. No fire to warm his cold hands where the skin cracked and bled against the typewriter keys, no fire to warm his heart to any but the white man who stood all but nameless at the center of his story, a pole on which the gaunt remnants of a person draped in the sepulchral twilight as the sun went down. Went down for the last time maybe, he didnt know.
I like big muscles and red corpuscles
I like a beautiful hunk o’ man
[Dorothy Shaw (Jane Russell) and nameless Olympian from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes number "Ain't There Anyone Here For Love?"]
Sometimes, you have such a good joke in mind that you have to spell it all out yourself.
But sometimes you just have to trust that the person you’re riffing with will get there. And sometimes that trust is rewarded.
Me & my friend John, tweeting about Maine’s notorious Boon Island.
Double-checking a Walt Whitman quote, I type into Google “I contain m-“; Google autofills “-arshmallows.” Yup, that checks out.
Do I chocolate-coat myself?
Very well then I chocolate-coat myself,
(I am large, I contain marshmallows.)
My latest trips down the wiki-hole:
It’s a straight line from Dazed and Confused to the Austin moon towers to the Servant Girl Annihilator.
And, though I don’t remember precisely the path, it’s no surprise that I refreshed my memory of the dancing plague that afflicted 16th century Strasbourg.
But I still don’t remember what process led me to the Dugong hypothesis for the origin of the word tabernacle.
How well does the all-knowing Google predict my behavior through search terms? Eerily well.
While researching proper pull-up form in an uncharacteristic burst of athleticism, I typed in pull, and Google autofilled -ed pork parfait, taking me from not knowing such a thing existed to passionately craving it in the space of a split second.
Presumably, it’s only my earnestly geeky search history that persuaded Google to deliver the desired information about the particle collider despite me misspelling it as “large hardon.”
And just now when I typed sam, Google autofilled some options, ranking local blues master (and my beloved friend) Samuel James just between Samuel L. Jackson and samurai. That is an appropriately bad-ass ranking, Google.
The accomplishment of the day: tweeted a joke that involved kerning and lost three followers by the time the page refreshed. Awwww yeeeah.