I’ve just been looking over a meta-collection of verses in a peculiar form, and am inspired to compose one of my own:
Poet, tragedian,
William McGonagall
sang to a bridge o’er the
silvery Tay.
“Quit not thy day job,” said
fellow Dundonians.
“Polyprosodical
verse is outré.”
Twenty years ago I’d barely heard of cilantro; now it’s hard to avoid. (I’m in a hereditary minority afflicted with the ability to taste it.) When did cilantro replace parsley as the ubiquitous garnish?
An embarrassing cartoon of n guys with beards, glasses and hats not entirely unlike mine, babbling about the Singularity and stuff, in 1993. Heh. It’s a scene from The Guy I Almost Was, a story by one Patrick Farley, who probably wasn’t at Extropaganza.
I hear through Dad that the Russian Government is incensed at Peter Jackson’s The Two Towers. Why?
(There was a pause as Dad gave me time to guess. I had no idea.)
Because Gollum looks like Esteemed Comrade President Putin!
Learn new words from the (US) Dialect Survey Results. (I wish there were some factor analysis.)
On the surface, this is extremely perplexing. Professional athletes are filthy rich, are always in the public eye, and are an object of worship for millions of fans. Hollywood stars are also filthy rich, are always in the public eye, and are objects of worship for millions of fans. Why then do the latter become mouthpieces for the most tiresome liberal [sic] causes while the former quietly do their jobs and vote for the G.O.P on the first Tuesday in November?
He has a good answer; but I wonder whether it might also have something to do with race, since Hollywood stars are less pigmented on average than athletic stars.
Does anybody know a good guitar teacher (for beginners) between, oh, San Leandro and Milpitas inclusive?
2006 May: Never mind, I’m selling the guitar. I find no way to hold it without causing pain in at least one wrist.