martinimade

And you may ask yourself: how did I get here?

Stopped by the scene shop on campus to visit the Featureless Saint who has already gone back to work at his real job. This song popped on just as I was leaving. Didn't get it when it first came out -- I mean, I liked it because it was the Talking Heads, not because of the song per se -- now, it resonates. Especially given that I now do find myself behind the wheel of a large automobile.

It was like one of those moments when you read a book that you loved in high school twenty years after the fact and understood it on an entirely new level, you know? Makes me wonder just how much I've missed over the years -- and how much I'll continue to miss.

Ah, life. Same as it ever was.

On an entirely different note -- Tim W. and I aren't the only one who've noticed that JFK is one of the lesser known circles of hell.

How I just don't get the sibling thing, from the local almost-daily.

Carry on.

"The look on our face isn't confusion.  It's disbelief.  In other words, we understand, we just don't fucking get it."

-- Jon Stewart, on our Beloved Leader's tendency to speak to us like we're five.

Whistle-ass.

The Pres., that is, not Stewart.

We have entered the season in the house where the top of the entertainment center is littered with containers and milkweed and caterpillars. The Diva and the Featureless Saint enjoy watching the great cycle of butterfly life, from microscopic egg to full-blown Monarch.

The first (pictured here pre-release) was shoved into the wild last night, causing no end of celebration.

It is a sign that summer is winding down. For my brothers and sisters in the south, let me mention that it was in the low 50s last night, after making it to blistering 78 during the day.

In Boy news, he celebrated the coming fall by waking up this morning with a fever so high he was hard to hold on to for very long. Then he puked, just to keep things interesting. A trip to the doc, a blood draw and a Tylenol suppository later, it appears to just be a virus. And so it goes.

Boy still sick. Again, his only symptom is a low fever, which seems to be about normal for him. One more day of it and the doc will be called. But, for now, we assume that it's a virus.

Which is probably more than you wanted to know.

I'm going to spend nap time (now, fyi) writing about the history of cauliflower in Delaware County for a freelance job. No. Really.

In lieu of scintillating content here, check out this thread on on Babble's Strollerderby that might reignite the WAHM v. WOHM (WOTHM?) wars. Why all the hate, yo?

(Oh, and Austin theatre fixture/best Rocky ever Joe York died this week. York was, by all accounts, a wonderful man. While I didn't know him personally, his work was amazing. Very sad.)

Boy still sick -- not sick-sick but not well, either -- so not much blogworthy, unless you count watching umpteen hours of Blue's Clues blogworthy. Which I don't.

And, so, three quick links: Slate thinks that August should be absorbed by the other months (I agree. August is loathsome.) and also has some biparitsan crafts in honor of the election season. Be sure to read the photo captions on the crafts. Finally, alpacas!

Let's find the next pawprint...

When the experiments start, the Boy will take one precaution.

We. are. doomed.

In other Boy news, he is feeling a bit peaky*, as am I. Just the other day, I thought to myself, self, it's been a while since anyone has been sick. Sigh.

* You'd never guess from his behavior, tho. This picture was shot yesterday. This morning he was running about like a child possessed by wee imps. Still, fever don't lie.

From the local almost-daily: Follow a Mellow Flick Road.

It probably isn't a good sign that this was the highlight of my evening. Still, good likeness.

Simpsonize yourself!

"Thoughtful gestures now on sale."

-- Subject line on a promotional email from Red Envelope. Makes one pause, it does, and not in a way that leads to spending money at Red Envelope...