He's Really Not a Bastard
Ahem.
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RIP, Whore
The whore has finally passed. Been a long time in coming, and it was expected, but still...She will be missed.
I'm using my husband's disgusting basement computer to write this, as the water drip-drips into the sump pump and spiders dodge between my toes, and mold -- my god, the mold -- slowly poisons my blood, and the dial-up wheezes its horrible song of sloth...
I, of course, don't have the bucks to buy a new whore, so my posts shall be infrequent, alas.
I will be checking E-mail, though, dependant upon my husband's generosity -- he usually keeps his disgusting basement office locked as a cautionary measure (mold, spiders, water hole of death in floor), and he won’t give me a key because he’s weird (he thinks my bad computer luck is catching, swears that whenever I or my oldest daughter use his machine, horrible things begin to happen to it – bullocks, but whatever...) I'll certainly try to visit my favorite blogs at least once a week, but that, too, will be infrequent.
Always remember that Ms. Lori loves you.
Peace.
Gimme a Big Nose on Rye, Please
Yeah, so I watched some of The Tony Danza Show this morning, but only because my friend suggested I check it out after I'd mentioned my fondness for Taxi reruns (I rarely watch TV during the day, except for some news with my coffee and some Jerry Springer with my workout), and well, I'm glad I did. I feel all...tingly. Kind of hungry in a sensual, "jeepers, I wish I had me a big Italian nose sub with mozzarella and gravy right now" kind of way.
Hot, that Danza. HAWT. Still has that boyish smile, those sweet eyes, broad shoulders, that wonderful hair...and the nose. He's still got the nose, and it hasn't drooped even a millimeter.
Yes, I'm a nose-woman, and I don't mind yelling that fact to the world. Actually, I think I will...
I LIKE BIG NOSES, I CANNOT LIE!
You other sisters can't deny
That when a boy walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a big fat long thing in your face...
Apologies to the esteemed Sir Mix-A-Lot.
But there's something very primal about large noses, something innately GRRRRR! and "Ooooh, grab my hair and drag me home, you banana-nosed bastard!" that rules my sense of attraction. Sure, I like the Brad Pitts and Orlando Blooms just as much as the next teeny bopper, but it's the noses that get me every time, the Conan O'Briens and David Duchovnys, the Richard Geres, the Pacinos and Adrian Brodys. You have no idea how deprived I've felt since The Sopranos has been on hiatus.
And you know that old wives' tale about the size of a man's feet? It's exactly that -- a wives' tale. It's all about the nose, ladies. The NOSE. I know because I've conducted my own informal study over the last, eh, let's see...
lost my virginity when I was...'kay, over the last 24 years or so. I researched this matter heavily, sampled and resampled, poked and prodded and mentally measured subject after subject, both great and small, and I do believe my findings, based on the majority, are indisputable. Of course, my studies came to a sudden and altogether not unpleasant conclusion upon marriage to Lar, but still. 24 years of research (minus the 15 I've been out of circulation) is nothing to sneeze at.
JAMA, are you listening?
The Bio That Won't Be
Aw, darn it. I wrote the BEST bio for an upcoming anthology publication, but the editor told me this morning that they won't be using bios.
I feel it must be seen, however, so here it is:
L. Lynn Young resides in a magical place called Rochester, where “Garbage Plates“ are considered fine cuisine and behemoth corporations loom on every street corner begging for change. A spiritual town, Rochestarians worship a wide variety of deities, including Chuck Mangione, and the magnificent “Fast Ferry.” Beware the Ferry’s wrath, for She has the power to humiliate all who do not believe in Her greatness.
An enchanting, albeit frightening place, to be sure, but a good place to raise well-rounded, cultured children who think they‘re Canadian.
In a London Square
Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane,
East wind and frost are safely gone;
With zephyr mild and balmy rain
The summer comes serenely on;
Earth, air, and sun and skies combine
To promise all that’s kind and fair;—
But thou, O human heart of mine,
Be still, contain thyself, and bear.
December days were brief and chill,
The winds of March were wild and drear,
And, nearing and receding still,
Spring never would, we thought, be here.
The leaves that burst, the suns that shine,
Had, not the less, their certain date;—
And thou, O human heart of mine,
Be still, refrain thyself, and wait. --Arthur Hugh Clough (1819–1861)
Is "Tripodial" a Word?
Spent the fourth with Tom “Denial is a River in Egypt” Cruise and a gaggle of scary robot things that sound like dying elephants -- yup, I saw “War of the Worlds,” and my gawd, FUN! Well, it wasn’t exactly fun shelling out
five bucks for a child-size cup of Coke, but the film was mag, just brill (think I’ll shorten all adjectives during this post -- hope you don’t mind), and I truly lost myself in Spielberg’s imagery, and I mean
lost myself, as in my suspension of disbelief was so complete, by the film’s end I was just about worshipping Hubbard.
Gorgie special effects and hideo tripodial monsters combined with what I believe was a fine and true portrayal of Wells’ vision, good acting, and a shirtless Cruise made for one hell of crazy good time. The only thing that kept me from changing my name to Kirstie Cruise Travolta and flying off to L.A. with a wad of tithe burning a hole in my pants was the ending scene. Gagorama, man.
But I can forgive that considering this is Hollywood we’re talking about here, the magical place where everything sucks ass.
Speaking of magical places, all things in Ms. Loriland, although occasionally suckass as well, were lovely over the holiday weekend. I was, of course, as weird as ever, bordering on too weird, if you can imagine. How weird, you ask? Well, if you must know, I wept while watching a pregnant robin hunt for worms. Yes, I sat on my patio steps one morning with my coffee, and I communed with nature as I sucked on my Skydancer Menthol Lights 100s (cheap Internet brand of cigs), and it was beauty. Then Lar walked around the corner bearing a broken garden hose and a frustrated look upon his face, and the magic ended. “What’s wrong with
you,” he asked, and I said, “The robin made me cry.” Lar’s jaw unclenched, and the hard line of his mouth softened. “Jesus,” he said, and then walked away.
