A video I made as part of a Black Sabbath music video collage, October 2006. Technical note: for some reason it sticks in the middle. Use the scrubber to get to the next frame and it should proceed fine for the remainder. Thanks for watching!
rating: 4 of 5 stars Terminally fascinating. Among other things, I learned that I am what is referred to as a "developmentally retarded" smoker. And teenagers take up smoking not because *smoking* is cool, but because *smokers* are. And there you have it, folks. I don't know about you, but I sure feel like having a cigarette.
Photo: Chester Higgins Jr./The New York Times Just five months away from an historic election, with record number citizens tuning in for political coverage, who could possibly fill his shoes. Rest In Peace.
Sweltering Sky The humidity steamrolled in, leaving no brow undampened in its wake. As well, it hampered ambition; perched a sweaty arm on the rooftop just above my window. Ninety two degrees swollen to feel like a hundred and two. My tiny desktop fan, though an earnest fellow, did little more than escort in the suffocating air.
Arlo sprawled on the floor, panting recklessly. I lay near comatose on too hot sheets, rummaged my brain, thankful Arlo hadn't passed out from heat stroke while I had earlier run out to an appointment. A cool place... For the both of us... Natch. We should head to the Dog Bar aka Brooklyn Ale House, champion of four-legged barflies. Of course I would bike. Arlo setting the pace next to me. That's how we roll.
We took the best shaded streets, creeped on at snail's pace, took frequent water breaks. Not five minutes in, we're accosted by a self-righteous screecher. She clamors out of a sleek black SUV, You shouldn't be bicycling with your dog! I thanked her and continued on. You idiot, you're abusing that dog! It was one of those all too familiar situations we catch ourselves in. Two blocks later, my mind floods with all the things I should've said; put her in her place. But lo! She's actually looped around to scold me again. You idiot! I should call someone. That is just abusive. ABUSIVE. You're an idiot. IDIOT. THIS IS ABUSIVE. This time I'm armed with my reply: Well, do you want to give us a ride? You need to get off your bike. We're kinda going at a snail's pace. I think I know what my dog is capable of.
She's still screeching at us while we cruise halfway down the block. I'm wondering if she's going to drive around yet again to berate me some more, but we've already reached our destination, and the cool air inside awaits.
Because it's not like you don't have enough to carry with you, but if you're a guilt-ridden paranoid consumer like me, you might find these handy grocery wallet guides useful. (Although you could just load it up on your iPhone too.)
The fruits and veg guide lists the foods most likely and least likely to contain pesticide residue — to stretch those organic food dollars. And the fish guides are great for avoiding stocks that are over-fished or high in mercury content. Bon appetit!
In the hasty minutes following my departure two nights ago, Arlo snuck to the cupboards. The wafting scent of a cooling vegetable pie fingering his hound nose, tugging at a never-sated hunger. Not so out of reach, he easily shifted loose the glass dish, disturbing its equilibrium. The subsequent crash sent shards scuttling to every corner of the tile floor, bespeckled ravenous morsels.
I came home to find the corpse remains of crushed cherry tomatoes among the broken plate, dried crimson footprints. Frustration and anxiety poisoning any rational thinking on my part. And there he is running up all too happy to have me home. And is he all right? And do I call a doctor? And why did I leave it there? And why did he eat the one thing I was planning on snacking on?
But thankfully, two days later, the glass left his system without episode. Anger turned into relief. The miracle of dog bellies.