October 31, 2014 § 1 Comment
There’s nothing spooky about Halloween Day, right? Creepy doesn’t happen during daylight hours. There aren’t any ghosts afoot, or bats on the wing, no hook hands hanging from car doors. That’s after dark stuff.
So I felt fairly safe when I got up this morning. Work was a frightening prospect, of course, but no worse than usual. I shuffled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and there it was. An Undead. Staring straight at me with puffy, bloodshot eyes. Crazy hair shooting off in all directions, in defiance of gravity. It was a horrible, terrifying moment. I screamed. It screamed. I ducked. It ducked.
Oh, crap, that’s the mirror. And morning me’s gruesome reflection. Please pardon the screaming. Carry on. And have a wildly Happy Halloween.
Copyright © 2014 Publikworks
October 28, 2014 § Leave a comment
We’re ba-a-a-ack! With an all-new, all-fabulous ninth edition of half-baked, the half-assed post.
For you newbies, this is a look at the offbeat stuff I find trawling the Internet. Unusual, quirky things I’d buy if I had the money. Everything from books to shower curtains to lamps — if it’s fun, it’ll pop up on half-baked. Sooner or later — most likely later.
See, I’m not much of a trendsetter. Spotting the next fad or fashion craze is an instinct I just don’t have. And I’m worse as a follower — hooboy, there’s a disaster. I’m good at drifting, though. I’m a natural at stumbling into the unexpected. I’m never looking for what I find, but once I see it I want it. Does that happen to you? You come across something you didn’t know you wanted until you saw it. Is that kismet? Covetousness?
Just this morning, for example, I ran into my eye doctor at the grocery store. Who runs into a dreamy medical professional in the juice aisle of a grocery store? I do — while I’m wearing sagging, bagged-out-at-the-knee sweatpants and a sweatshirt with holes. I hadn’t even combed my hair yet. And there he stood, the man of my dreams: showered, shaved, neatly pressed, and was that harp music I heard?
I had two choices: keep going or stop to chat. Since he’s my eye doctor, he knows I can see; the bad eyesight excuse wouldn’t work. So I sucked it up and chatted. He ignored the cowlicks and pillow creases, he overlooked the holey sweatshirt, he just smiled and blushed and melted my heart. I love that guy.
Hey, maybe you’ll discover something here that melts your heart? We’ve gone à la carte in our 9th issue. We tossed in whatever was on hand and stirred, sort of like a hearty stew. Sound good?
Speaking of sound, have you heard Bette Midler’s cover of TLC’s Waterfalls? Check it out here. The song is from her new album, It’s the Girls, available November 4 in the US; November 17 in the UK. The album is a tribute to the girl groups she loved — from the Andrews Sisters to the Supremes.
Hatching Twitter by Nick Bilton — billed as the true story of money, power, friendship, and betrayal,but they forgot to mention stoopidity. How Twitter survived the bumbling management of those four dudes is nothing short of a miracle. Still it was an interesting story of treachery and egos run amok.
Those guys, I swear. They come up with the greatest stuff. Imagine serving snacks from this tray ($19.95) at your next get together or coffee in this mug ($12.95). They’ll either be a huge hit or a flaming miss. Available here.
And there you have it. Be sure to stop by for our next edition, half-baked X. Sounds vaguely pornographic, doesn’t it? Oy. That one will get a lot of disappointed viewers.
Happy trails, boys and girls, until we meet again.
Copyright © 2014 Publikworks
October 15, 2014 § 10 Comments
There’s been a coup, ladies and gentlemen.
My brain, pictured above, has overthrown my thyroid, pictured below, and seized control of operations. Hey, don’t look at me; I’m just as surprised as you are. I had no idea this kind of brouhaha was going on and right under my nose, too. No, it was more behind and a little above my nose — one must be precise.
But the bigger news is, I’m free of that bossy little tyrant at last. Sure, the average thyroid gland weighs, what? 20 grams? Pipsqueak, right? Close, it’s an armored tank. It took nuclear medicine (that’s right, nuclear!) and two flipping years to shut that juggernaut down. It did not go quietly, I assure you. In fact, I’m still not confident it went at all. Hell, for all I know, my thyroid’s playing possum or waiting in the weeds or impersonating a brain. I don’t trust it.
What I do know is I can think again. I’ve been getting ideas lately — the executions are weak (read that as lame), but the ideas are okay. My memory is up and running. I can focus; I can concentrate. I’m fairly rusty, of course, but I should expect that, right? I mean, my brain sat idle for 10 or 15 years, it probably needs a chance to warm up. We all would.
Maybe I should caution you at this point, say something like ‘don’t expect a miracle.’ After all, I’m still the one holding the pencil and even on my best days I’m no Dorothy Parker. Shoot, I’m not even Fess Parker. What I’ve been calling ideas could actually be déjá vu or a bad burrito. So let’s not get all carried away here; let’s just wait and see.
While we’re waiting, I’d like to thank each one of you for your patience and indulgence. This can’t have been easy for you, either. A number of these posts were a tough slog, riddled with all kinds of nonsense and folderol, I know. And that’s what makes your sacrifice so noble — you soldiered on. Without complaint. You’re saints. May the Force be with you. Amen.
Copyright © 2014 Publikworks
September 30, 2014 § 16 Comments
Me. I killed a squirrel.
Oh, not with my bare hands or anything, but with my big, dumb car. Okay, technically, it was animal control, not the car, but let’s not split hairs. I’m the one wracked with guilt and shame and a deep, abiding sorrow I can’t shake. Serves me right, too. I’m a cold-blooded assassin.
You see, fall is the busy season for squirrels. Duh, right? Between hiding their nuts and looting the bird feeders, their days are packed. Winter’s coming, so there’s no time to waste. They dash here and there, hither and yon, they zig and they zag from sunup to sundown. That’s what squirrels do. It’s their job and they take it seriously. Have you ever seen one stroll or saunter or dawdle? No, you have not. They have one speed: scamper.
And that’s exactly what this guy was doing that fateful morning. He was scampering. Sure, at first he was cavorting and larking, but then he saw my car. He froze, then panicked. Into the road he darted, changed his mind and made a headlong dash for the curb. He’d be alive today if only he’d stayed there, but he made one last, desperate charge for the road.
I swerved and stabbed the brakes, but to no avail. The furry little dude was badly injured; he couldn’t get up. I wanted to call an ambulance. I wanted to fix him. I wanted him to pop back up and scurry home. With a woeful and heavy heart I called animal control. They came and whisked him away. I watched the truck until it disappeared in the distance.
At lunch, I called to check on him, hoping against hope he survived. He hadn’t.
The woman on the phone was as kind as she could be, but the news hit me like a punch. I couldn’t breathe for the sadness. I should send flowers, I thought; take a casserole to the family, set up a roadside memorial. I should go to confession or turn myself in to authorities, something. Anything.
In the end, I just sat down and cried.
The thing is, I attribute human characteristics to stuff. To me, everything has a personality, it has thoughts and feelings and speaks English. Whether it’s an animal, a bug, a car, a toy, it’s as real as I am. That’s not good. Or healthy. Hell, I get all weepy when my car’s towed. Hoisted in the air like that, only two wheels touching the ground, it looks helpless and pitiful — isn’t that nuts? That’s nuts.
I’m supposed to feel that way about humans. But, curiously, I don’t. Them I objectify. Besides, humans are supposed to have brains; they can take care of themselves. They don’t need me to protect them, to fight their battles. Unless they’re really old or really young, then I’m there.
Everyone else is on their own.
Forgive me, buddy, and rest in peace :’ (
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September 24, 2014 § 16 Comments
Yippee and yahoo, boys and girls, it’s time to celebrate.
National Punctuation Day is here.
You sticklers and buffs will no doubt question not only my credentials, but also my enthusiasm for this very festive holiday because I haven’t used any exclamation points. Well, go ahead. I’ve never hidden my disdain for the frivolous and hysterical exclamation point. I don’t like it and I never have. But now? It’s taking over the damn world. It’s everywhere you look.
Lately, it’s been showing up as twins!! and triplets!!! and quadruplets!!!! The practice isn’t limited to exclamations, either. Question marks, too, are popping up in multiples??????? Do we all have a character count to meet or something? Things are getting way out of hand. There are rules, you know? I don’t follow them, myself, but someone should. Otherwise, it’s just lawlessness and chaos. That’s no fun.
You know about the interrobang, of course. The !? or is it ?! Either way, it’s a mutant. An alien. It scares me and I want it to get back in its spaceship and fly away. We don’t need another punctuation mark. We have plenty, what with emoticons :o) and the hash mark (# a.k.a. the octothorpe) and pilcrow (¶) and diple (>). More will just confuse things, don’t you think? I don’t know how to use the ones we already have. And diple? What the heck is that for?
Well, happy National Punctuation Day, kids,but don’t go overboard. If you absolutely have to use an exclamation point, remember, one is plenty. Ditto for question marks. Please, punctuate responsibly!? :o)
> Copyright © 2014 Publikworks
September 18, 2014 § 12 Comments
Yours and mine.
We may as well kiss our sorry butts goodbye, because for the next six months or so we’re marked men and women. ulp. If we had any brains at all we’d run like we’re on fire. Starting now.
Open your eyes and look around, the writing’s on the wall, big as life. Darkness falls earlier and earlier. A fine mist hangs in the air; water drips from the trees and eaves and gurgles in the downspouts. The sky is cheerless gray, the shade of despair. And, most revealing of all, long pants and sweatshirts were pulled out of storage this morning.
What does that tell you?
Bingo. Fall is here. I hate fall. Oh, the season itself isn’t so bad. I like bonfires and hayrack rides and bobbing for apples as much as the next guy. I like the brilliant colors of autumn leaves and crisp apple cider, hearty stews, all that stuff. But it’s too little, too late. Fall is a precursor, my friend, a slippery slope to the nightmarish ordeal lying dead ahead.
It’s only September, for chrissakes, but feels like November. If the weather continues this course, trick or treaters will need a dogsled and an ice axe to make their rounds. Costumes will be buried under parkas and mufflers and wool caps — shoot, save time, dress them as Eskimos.
By Thanksgiving, I’ll envy the turkey happily roasting in the oven. The coming winter is widely predicted to be worse than last year. Remember last year? I do. I still have flashbacks of the polar vortexes. Lately, small talk and idle chatter has revolved around the coming season. Without fail someone gleefully relates how horrible, grim, bleak, and endless this wint — sorry. I can’t go on.
The thought of what lies ahead depresses me to the point of tears. You don’t want to see that. Really, you don’t. I’m an ugly crier; hideous, actually. My face crumples, my nose runs, my hair gets involved — sproing. I’m not one of those beautiful, tragic women who cries quietly and elegantly. I’m Lucy Ricardo’s twin, I wail like a siren. Then can’t stop.
You know, tell you what; call me when spring gets here. But not a moment before.
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