When I say I like to make my own friends, I mean that I physically create them with my own teeth from items in the crisper drawer. This image is from The Ginger People, related to ginger root's reputed anthropomorphic resemblance. It's the closest image I could find (without a prop comic) to my newest, dear friend made of a gnawed-down carrot top whose four remaining shoots of greenery form his arms and legs. Carroty Nubblington has been faithful and true for at least 24 hours. Now sadly, his limbs are yellowing and his jaunty orange cranium is going soft and brown. I will miss you, staunch pal. Be well in your trip to the white plastic-lined Valhalla. I have no time or inclination to think anything else through. Splat. You're it.
1) Does the mysterious and alluring inconsistency of the Mona Lisa's smile have to do with the anatomy of our eyes?
2) Via Grumpy Old Bookman, another fabulous article from New York Press about the dangerously dull conformity of "workshopped" fiction. If you want a bonus, read GOB's book review today for his nested comments on fiction in general:
Finally, I want to return to my point that the novel which eschews all attempt at Deeper Significance, and just tells a story, is at least as valuable (actually rather more so) than one which seeks to weave in some message or other...A story, in my opinion, doesn't have to mean anything. But it does have to have an effect; otherwise both writer and reader are lost.
As your cross-referenced bonus, read gaping void's post about marketing being the art of storytelling. At least no one accuses marketeers of pushing Deeper Significance.
3) Wonder no longer about the sad souls who are employed to create the junked-up surfaces of undistinguished, horizontal crap decor for chain restaurants.
4) Today's sickly fat buttocks beg for longer needles.
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