Give Move On some bucks, and watch a Republican’s head explode.
And hey, holla! to Amber Benson! Tara’s … alive?!!!!
How’d I miss this? Via yesterday’s NYTimes, apparently MSNBC has been reading the tea leaves, or the lesbo newsfan collective unconscious, or the blogs, or hey, maybe their ratings. Looks like Rachel Maddow just might get that show that everyone keeps saying she oughta have already…
“At some point, I don’t know when, she should have a show,” said Phil Griffin, hours before he was promoted on Wednesday to president of MSNBC. “She’s on the short list. It’s a very short list. She’s at the top.”
“They know I would love to do it,” Ms. Maddow, 35, said over a recent lunch below 30 Rockefeller Plaza. “I’m going to let them decide what they want to do about me. I’m saying yes every time they ask me to be on television.”
The stall is unattended. Some days, like yesterday, it’s all tomatoes. Other days, it’s a mix of giant zuchinni, yellow squash, peppers, and yeah, tomatoes. You pull up into the dusty lot, step out of the car into the heat, and the smell and the taste of tomatoes envelopes you.
There are two handwritten notes attached to the metal moneybox. One apologizes in advance for nibbles by wandering deer. The other explains that the stand is closed on Wednesdays, in solidarity with the farmer’s market.
Sometimes you have to find the bowl of the scale that’s blown off into the weeds or down the sidewalk, sometimes the bags are all gone. But the one thing that seems constant is that the box is stuffed with money, you have to work a little to push your dollars into the slot. You realize then that you are paying for two things, really: the divinity of fresh tomatoes, as well as the chance to prove you can be trusted.
*Post title from Pablo Neruda’s Oda al Tomate (English translation)
In the time I’ve lived at this house, one thing I’ve not done at all is landscaping or yard work, other than basic mowing and weed eating. Partly because I couldn’t afford it, partly because I didn’t have the time, but mostly because I wasn’t inspired yet. My usual pattern with big projects, for interiors or exteriors, is to do nothing until I figure out the best path of action. That usually takes a long time but I trust the process. I’ve learned the hard way, too. I’m such a circular thinker that if I don’t wait at first, I’ll start things on an impulse, then a different impulse takes over and I’ll either abandon it or it morphs into something I don’t like anymore and I get hopelessly frustrated. It’s best to get my brain out of the way and let the space teach me what to do with it.
I’ve finally settled on what to do in the front yard. I knew all along that I wouldn’t be keeping the manicured turf grass that came with the house. Water’s becoming more precious by the minute around here, we pay a fortune for it, and anyone who uses it to keep turf grass alive is an idiot. I’ll be replacing it with a combination of native grass, limestone and river pebbles, and stepping stones in paths and wider paved patches, with larger native plants in groupings. I’m still sketching; I’ll start the heavy work in the cooler weather, then plant in the spring. I won’t get it done all at once, so I’m leaving the brown grass to hold the soil.
The sage above is the one plant I’ve put in the soil since moving here. Like me, it’s a transplant from the failed marriage. Not long before things went south, the ex and I had put a bunch of them in at the old place. I took some with me when I moved out, this was the only one that survived, and I’ll attest that it’s thrived largely on neglect. This is the fullest set of blooms it’s ever had, result of a couple of welcome rain showers a few weeks ago. With everything around burned and dried to a crisp, the luscious purple is heartening, reminding me to be patient.
Time, place, kinship: these things work differently on the Internet than out here in the “real” world.
For what feels like forever but is only four years or so, First Draft‘s been a home base for me, my local, the first link of the day. And I found that place, and kept coming back at first, because of Holden.
This is a few days (okay a week ) old but it’s too good not to post. As to the lateness, I can only blame the tardiness and/or complete dearth of local Gorilla Jesus Witnesses. Had any neat-but-modestly-dressed gorillas showed up at my door to tell me the good news, I’m certain I would have linked to Fafblog earlier.
“Gorilla Jesus was created in an accident of mad Jesus science,” says me, “when a test ape launched to earth in an experimental God rocket was transformed by exposure to cosmic Godmotron particles.”
“When the rocket crashed Gorilla Jesus survived with mysterious messiah powers,” says Giblets, “like consubstantiality and hypostatic unity and x-ray vision.”
“He was raised by humble farmer parents deep in the ape heartland,” says me, “but moved to the big city to spread his gospel a peace an love an feces-flinging to all people.”
“And so they tried an convicted Gorilla Jesus of heresy an witchcraft an they sentenced him to death,” says me. “And that’s when the robots attacked.”
As is also evident, this is actually quite timely, since it’s an example of a funny gorilla story that’s actually.. you know, funny … instead of sick and twisted.