Wednesday, June 19, 2002

I. Have. Arrived.

PS Gotta blogroll you. What's your poison?

Stephen Green
http://www.vodkapundit.com


(hic!)

Now, where's my Pejman? Here, Pejjypejjy...
I get questions. You get answers.

I'd like to instigate the Wednesday W's.

Who: Sulizano. It's an Italian word for a trash dumpster or something. Not my real name, of course, who the hell would name a kid that? Except I do know of a girl named Spatula.

What: A 40-something hippie chick of Irish-Cherokee descent. A redhead sometimes. A gainfully employed writer who gets it all done way ahead of deadline and spends the rest of the time goofing off. Also a gainfully employed piano barrista. A diehard member of the Big Comfy Underpants delegation. In my next life, I'll be a New Orleans pastry chef.

Where: Alabama. It's not that bad, really it's not.

When: Beer-thirty.

Why: Because I can't let Dawn have all the fun.
Triumph, tragedy

Best day ever: My 12-year-old nephew Andrew is a little tank of a kid, big-boned and not very tall. Somewhat shy, and would rather play with the insides of a television than throw a ball. His dad has been working with him on his hitting, and in last Saturday's Little League game he nailed that sucker:



First home run ever for that game's MVP. You've never seen anybody smile so big, for so long.

Then came Sunday, with Andrew sitting in evening services with his best friend Jonathan. Afterward, leaving the building, Jonathan trips and falls down the long church stairs, out into the four-lane highway, where he's instantly killed by an oncoming car. Everyone, the dad, my nephew, everyone saw it happen.

How on earth does a 12-year-old recover from this? I have no idea.

You are hot, cxblog-guy.



Even though I usually don't go for muscular frat dude youngster types.

You've got that nice big hot, juicy, opinionated mind and that just makes me all shivery. In a good way.
Okay. I'm gonna think about doing the Blogathon, and IF I decide to do it, here's my charity of choice.

These good people have given my brother good years that he might not have had otherwise, and at very little cost to our family. I've spent many hours in that waiting room.

Heck, I just decided... Dawn darlin', I'm in!
I've hesitated to link to one specific bloggergod because I'm just not worthy to have my pseudonym on the same page as his name.

However, right now, I'm chilled at the words of James Lileks:

...let’s imagine, just for argument’s sake, that Hamas wins in 20 years, and Israel is destroyed, and you find myself at a party talking to a fellow who’d made a trip to Liberated Jew-Free Palestine. No matter how civilized the fellow sounds, no matter how urbane and moderate his demeanor, I don’t think it would be possible to hear his words. You’d hear the crunch of bones underfoot. The sound of boots coming up the stairs.

The story I read about the bombing described one girl who was laid face down on the road side; the reporter noted the long neat braid down her back.

When I was growing up it seemed as if there was just one Anne Frank. Who could have imagined she would have so many sisters?