Bad Answers

The Magic 8 Ball hasn’t given me a single answer I want lately. I've tried fooling the Magic 8 Ball by asking it easy questions, like “Who shot JR?” or “What hath god wrought?” or “Did you see that?” but I just cannot win. If all I’m going to get from the Magic 8 Ball is the cat’s bum, then I’m just going to have to scry - and nobody likes you when you scry. You know what they say: Laugh and the world laughs with you; scry, and you scry alone.

I Think You'll Agree: This Post Is Awesome

From now on, I'll insist that all promotional photos taken of me adhere to the following rules:

1. All photos will depict me in profile with my shadow on the wall behind me, and

2. All photos will be sepia tone or black 'n white.

I know bupkis about photography, and my delightful ignorance translates into only two rules. I have a lesser known rule that has to do with photography, and that is "Never offend a tortoise."

I do know that "bupkis" means "goat feces." As in, "I know goat feces about photography." That makes two references to poo in one day. Three, depending on how you count. Five or six, depending on how much you dislike what I have to say.

At least I never skip spaces and ramble on. That's boring!

Tune in tomarrow as I describe my favorite rocks and sticks. We will go through my shoebox full of denim pockets torn off pants. I will talk about that terrific game "Rock, Paper, Scissors." I will feed stale bread to two ducks. We will watch a short filmstrip about a tuba factory. And I will weep uncontrollably when Paul the Postal Carrier stops by to talk about the difference between a crumpet and a biscuit.

Apples

One thing I like about my blog is that I don't have to type about news or crimes, like journalists do. I am under no obligation to invent insufferable characters and place them in loathsome situations, like novelists and journalists do. I can type a post about anything. Frinstance, this post is called APPLES. It is about apples.

I say, what about apples? You can rinse off an apple and pop it down your gullet, just like that. If you no longer swallow your food whole, you can chew, chew, chew the night away - just you and your apple. You can take your apple on public transportation, or you can place your apple in the passenger side of your Ford Squallour, and drive in the carpool lane. You can hand your apple to a hobo, or whip it at a kidnapper. You can lob your apple onto the basketball court at an NBA game. Your apple is likely to make it through airport security, unless you threaten to kill someone with it. Keep your mouth shut, that's what I always say. You can't kill someone with an apple if you lark about in your monocle and cape, raving of apple killin'. You'll be waylaid and questioned, or arrested and strapped into a gurney.

If you are an actress, you can name your child Apple, and Apple will receive a gratis library of picture books from Oprah Winfrey.

Here endeth the post "Apples."

Crudtown

All day long, I waited for something to cheer me up, because I couldn't do it for myself. I was desperate; anything would do for cheering - a burst pipe, a sudden low fog, a human turd on the staircase. Anything! But no. Nothing cheered me up. I was so forlorn that even lunch couldn't help me. Stupid soup, would it kill you to give me a boost?

I've Returned For Your Sake, and Your Sake Alone

After four years of stalwart service to me (and to the socially inept peeples who ask and are permitted to "use" my mobile phone) the battery in my voice-exchanging implement has at last gone inalterably dead. Is it better to say "inalterably dead," or just "dead?" My, those adverbs are a bugbear. One never knows. Anything.

My phone is dead and I am considering going without. Others will resort to mailing me actual paper correspondence, or not, as my email lies neglected at the bottom of my lilypad-clogged, file-smeared desktop pond.

Cripes, nobody calls me anyway! It's a good thing that I care about NOTHING. I don't even care about this keypad. Keypad? Screw you! I douse you in celebratory tea! hssssssssssssss

I gueeee e ss theeeeeese eez goodbyyyyyyyyyye forvvr!

Refined Palate

For lunch I had a triple latte, a German chocolate eyeball (kakao: 30% mindestens) and some Tesco Bacon Rashers Snacks. My passport may be pristine, but I’ll eat delicacies from all four corners. I swear I will. I would even eat the Virgin Mary grilled cheese sandwich- if it had been grilled in Vatican City. Which it wasn’t. So I won’t. Also, it wouldn't be ladylike. Eating that sandwich. Sentence fragm. Eep.

Twee Post (Horrors!)

This morning a spider tried to rappel on me while I was in the shower. Normally, this particular spider is very polite. He stays in his corner and plays cards. What happened? I’ll tell you what I think happened. I think the spider started slipping on the ceiling condensation. His situation was as follows: rappel, or fall to a watery demise. He seemed upset. But what about me?! I was upset too, and my hair was full of soap!

Also, I think we ought to give Manhattan back to the Dutch.

I Need More Space

I never have enough room to put stuff on my desk. My desk is not nearly big enough for my purposes. Nor is it big enough for my porpoises. Sometimes I lay one, two, even three porpoises out on my desk, and they barely fit. Their tail fins hang over the edge. I have to keep moist washcloths on their skin, and the washcloths that cover their tail fins keep falling off. I don’t want my porpoises to dry out! What I need is a bigger desk. My dream desk would hold 4-5 porpoises, plus all my papers and my laptop.

EWP Best of Things, vol. 1

Best Prince Song - When Doves Cry
Best Ale with a Spokesfox - Old Speckled Hen
Best Cat Treat That Angela Won't Eat - Purrlicious
My Favorite Door In the House - My bedroom door, but they all have flaws
Best Monthly Bill - Electricity
Best Salted Nut - Almond
Favorite Autumn 2004 Table Gourd - The green one with raised incongruous dots
Best Anachronistic Complaint - Everyone in Physics has a graphing calculator but me
Best Person For the Job - Me

Sunday Is So Sad

Google is the boringest website I've ever seen. You should look at it! It will poach you brain in a shallow pan of dull. All it is is this white page that says "Google" with a couple words that make no sense together. Why is Google so popular? Does it have something to do with anime? Because anime just about kills me, too. Boring. I'd rather sit still and watch a box full of pvc pipes. In front of a golf poster.

Fae Wellington's The Dinner Party

Are you coming over for my dinner party? You are? Why, I find that odd, for I am not conducting a dinner party any time soon. But when I do, it will be by invitation only, and you will have to adhere to the following:

1. If you detect an unpleasant smell upon entering my house, assume that you brought the smell in with you. My house is immaculate.
2. Required dress: piss elegant.
3. You really ought to bring me a nice gift. If you bring me a box of steaks, I will empty the box under the hood of your car when you are not looking.
4. Don't like hours of Phil Collins, Gershwin and jarring German electronica? Don't come to my dinner party, dog!
5. I will have some fine booze on hand. If you spill it, I will slap your cheek and repossess your glass. You will drink pedialyte from a sippy cup and you will wear a Dr. Seuss hat. We will avoid you.
6. I do not care where you are in your divorce, you will not be permitted to cry behind the locked bathroom door. Shouting matches always encouraged. Please, drink. Oh, do!
7. If you dislike the food, whip it at the hippy in the Dr. Seuss hat.
8. You will be permitted to trap game in the wood behind my home for the duration of the dinner party. Any game and/or traps left behind will become property of yours truly.
9. All roof fires will be promptly extinguished.
10 You must evacuate my house immediately upon my cue: I will ring a cowbell. If that does not get you out of my house, I will start smashing the porcelain with the cowbell. Princess needs her beauty sleep.

What the?

Okay, whose job is it to watch Punxsutawney Phil? Get on the ball! He's over here, eating through my garage! He's already scared the crap out of my musk oxen, and I think he just got into the birdseed. I don't even know who to call - wait - oh, great. Now he's in my car. That is IT. I'll put on my gloves and catch him myself.

Useless!

Some of you are probably thinking about buying the new Shraddle-T-Caster 4X1. Don't bother! It's a piece of crap, inside and out. First of all, it does not regulate it's own temperature, and you'll be burned silly if you tamper with the G2 Loingirding mechanism while the Flirtenfurter is switched on. Secondly, it does not offer a clear wolf whistle when a lady of comely mien strides by. You will have to do that manually. Thirdly, nobody has ever deciphered the hieroglyphics inside the Casual Whumpus Commander, so nobody knows how to manipulate the toggle that trips the switch that tweaks the Scorn/Boompus Throttle. I give this gadget a straight D minus. The only reason it's not a F is that you can buy a Hello Kitty faceplate to replace the boring translucent black one that comes with the set.

Welcome Home, Harriet!

Dear Harriet,

Glad you made it out of the hospital alive - and with two new babies! Don't try to sell me one, I have enough on my hands with Harry and his bunions. He hasn't left the bed in two days. I've been sleeping standing up in the linen closet. Best sleep I've had in years.

I know you asked me to take in your mail when you were at the hospital, but I didn't see the point in that. It was all bills. I didn't know you had a platinum visa! You can take us out to Sergio's next week. I'm on one of those Beach diets. I forget which one. All I know is that I can't eat chestnuts or plankton.

I have a stack of ironing the size of the grassy knoll waiting for me. Incidentally, I helped myself to MY Ann-Margret record, the one you borrowed when Chet was born. Funny how I found it in your pile of eBay stuff. You got some nerve, Harriet. That record is signed.

All the best,

Esther

INTERROBANG PICNIC ?!

Do you ever panic? I do. That's why no one invites me over for tea anymore. I'm perched on the sofa, I'm fine, I'm chirpy as all get out, and POCKHH! PANIC! Tea splattered everywhere! Table overturned, vases shattered, hostess cowering behind the DVD tower! Because did I LOCK MY FRONT DOOR?!?! DID THE CATS GET OUT?!? DO I HAVE A CAVITY?! DID SOMEONE STEAL MY MAIL?!? WAS I SECRETLY SCHEDULED TO WORK TODAY?! DID I USE A WORD THAT HAS A DOUBLE MEANING, AND NOW I'M A RACIST?!? IS SOMEBODY SOMEWHERE WRITING CHECKS ON MY ACCOUNT?!? IS THAT GUY FOLLOWING ME?!? I HAVEN'T LOOKED AT MY PASSPORT IN A MONTH, COULD SOMEONE HAVE STOLEN IT?!? SHOULD I BE MAKING SMALL TALK?!? DID I DROP MY KEYS IN THE STREET?!? DO I HAVE FOOD POISONING?!?! OI, IS THAT A LUMP?!? WHY DOES THAT CAR KEEP DRIVING BY?!? WHAT IS THAT NOISE, IS SOMEONE IN THE BASEMENT?!? WHERE DID I LEAVE THAT NASTY LETTER?!? IS SOMEBODY ON TO ME??! AM I GETTING SUNBURNED?!? AM I OUT OF COFFEE?!? ARE THE DEAD WATCHING US?!? OH MY GOD, IS MY PHONE BILL OVERDUE?!?

I'm never invited back, no matter how much cash I leave behind for repairs and clean-up.

P, You Could Have Left Us a Voicemail Or Something

In the old days, we were sort of like a "posse," you know: me, Colin Powell, Moose, Stooley, and Toonces. But for the past four years, we've been all, "Where's P?" We used to call him P, see. So we'd be all, "Where's P?" And Moose would say, "I think he got one of those govermit jobs." As it so happens, Moose was correct. Colin did have a government job. And sure, he sent Stooley half of the rent each month, so Stooley didn't get kicked out of his place. Stooley's been using P's bedroom to store his hockey equipment and the recycling. What I'm wondering is, why did we need to find out about P on the news? Why didn't P TELL US that he got a government job, and why didn't he call us when he quit that job? And why is Stooley still delivering pies for a living, when his roomie has been on salary all this time? Dude, P should have paid ALL of Stooley's rent! You don't just run off without a word, leaving your old friends in the lurch! We crashed Homecoming together! Class of '86! Toonces dated P's sister for two months! We have a history together! Dude, P! CALL US! (MOOSE HAS HALO 2!!!)

It Was a Black Day in Topic Drift Country

Today was the most confounding day I've faced all month. I didn't have a proper lunch, I stepped in dog poo, I forgot some cheese in my shared desk drawer and I had to haul back to work to retrieve it after hours, and at the office a man on the phone threatened, "I'm gonna come down there and choke you, bitch." Oi, I nearly died of shock!! Fortunately, the man thought he had phoned Walgreens. That lurid threat was not even meant for me! At any rate, this is why women ought not to work outside the home. Happy Anniversary, Outer Life! Send money!

Let Me Help You Write Your Paper

It appears that some hearty souls have dropped by Topic Drift for my Synopsis of Faulkner’s Requiem For a Nun. I love Faulkner, but I can’t imagine why anyone would read this book. Alas, if you must read it, go ahead. It’s terrible. And if you must write a paper about it, include the following bits for a swift A+: Temple Drake didn’t bore readers enough in Sanctuary, so she elbowed her way into Requiem For a Nun. Nancy is a fertility symbol, but with a twist. Popeye is a symbol for the South after the Civil War. Long ago, he forced himself on Temple as "retribution" for General Grant’s terrible swift sword. Boy, that Grant was a looker! The most powerful and telling part in the book is when Gowan runs down the tracks after Ruth’s hat and the train strikes him. Idgy never recovers from Gowan’s death; she becomes a “wild child” who charms bees. One could compare Temple’s dead child to Nashville: lots of music there. But Nancy killed the “music!” Or did she? The courtroom, like “the road,” ain’t no place to start a family. Part of Requiem For a Nun is told as a play, which helps the reader gain a deep understanding of the dramatic nature of child murder, or “wee thanatos.” Good luck with your paper!

The Dog and the Marshmallows

I was trying to watch the Daily Show, but it wasn't very funny, so I turned it off and I fed some marshmallows to the dog. It was just like Aesop's fable, The Dog and the Marshmallows. First, the dog eats the marshmallows. Then he walks to his water bowl and drinks water for about five minutes. He sees grapes in the water bowl, but shut up! He doesn't care about those grapes! He's had seven jumbo marshmallows!

Moral of the story: The Daily Show isn't very funny anymore.

I Remember Facts

Today I was trying to remember the title of the movie about two Canadian dudes who drink beer and call each other ‘hoser.’ Finally, after hours of soul searching and deliberations, I remembered the name of the movie. What an anticlimax that was.

Civic Improvements

Do you know what Minneapolis lacks? Heads on pikes. Now, I’m not passing judgment on Minneapolis or anything; I know these things have to be budgeted properly and all, and the city hasn't a cent to spare. And it could be that Minneapolis isn’t quite ready for heads on pikes. I suppose these things take time. I’m willing to wait a year or two.

I'm Pulling an All-Dayer

Usually I sleep all day and sniff t-shirt armpits all night. I work in an all-night anti-perspirant/deodorant lab. I am a sniff technician. Science wants to know: does 'Tom’s of Maine' deodorant work? My nose says yes, but you must re-apply it every 30 minutes. And that’s just Tom's deodorant, folks. There’s no anti-perspirant in 'Tom’s of Maine' deodorant. Everybody sweats profusely in Maine – even cheerleaders and babies. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

My Diamonds, They're Gone!

I just saw Nancy Drew ride by on her Schwinn. This confirms one of my key lifelong suspicions: Nothing beats a Schwinn for excellence in gumshoe transport. Now I have some concrete evidence to float on when I talk Schwinn with haughty "bicycling enthusiasts."

This probably means that Nancy is on her way to the old Barnstaple place. Ha, I think she's in over her head with this one. The old Barnstaple place has a haunted furnace, a gender-bending jewel thief, a bloodthirsty granny and a meth lab. I will now shut off this computer, put on my coat and follow her. When she goes inside the Barnstaple house - yoink! That Schwinn will be mine.

From Now On, I Keep Some Things To Myself

Just today I said to myself, "You know, there just aren't enough good Gilgamesh jokes out there." Hardly were those words out when a thunderous voice bellowed, "THAT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT LOOKING IN THE RIGHT PLACE, ESTHER." A ferocious wind blew my hair back, scattered my tchotchkes and knocked the pictures off my wall. Nuts. That's the last time I complain about Gilgamesh aloud. I don't see the need to wake the ancients with my bitching.

Why I'm Sleepy

I was up all night, watching the lawn. I thought I saw it move yesterday. When it moves again, I'll catch it on film. Good, clear film - no Loch Ness fuzziness for me. If I can prove the existence of Pigmy Sod Gorillas, I will be rolling in dough. And by dough, I mean money. I won't roll in any real dough. That's wasteful.

What a Day!

Dear Harriet,

You got some nerve, walking around calling yourself me. You've got me into a heap of trouble down at Scarmichael's Deli. Now they think I'm you, and that I eat corned beef. Corned beef! I haven't eaten corned beef in years. Tastes like shoes to me.

Big thanks for ruining my life. I can't walk by a church without some guy rushing out and kicking me in the seat of the pants, or dousing me with some kind of liquid. They all hate me now, all the religious. Like I'm going to bring 'em to hell with me. They can have heaven! You stink, Harriet! I know I'll be seeing you in hell.

I want my Ann-Margret record back. It's signed. I've a sneaking suspicion I'll never see it again. You got some nerve, Harriet. Stop telling people I drink alone.

My best to you and the family.

Esther

My One True Fire Speech

I spoke at a luncheon for the International Interdenominational Predeterminationism Society of the Americas today. Holy cow, I really had them going! After my speech, we had to evacuate the ballroom - the floor nearly collapsed from the thunderous foot stomping! Here's the speech, for those of you who were not there (where were you, Noam? I saved you a seat!):

Ladies and Gentlemen of the IIPSA, thank you for inviting me here to speak to you today.

As you already know, twenty years of well-deserved rest can strengthen any organization. But if you're like me, you're asking yourself, "Hey! What next for us? Hey?"

Calm down, man! We cannot move mountains with our insatiable desire for more mountains! We must scale that mountain, cut out the taproot, slide down the mountain, and replant the taproot on IIPSA land! We must build mountains ourselves! We must light the One True Fire!

What we need, more than anything, are a few leaders fearless enough to light the One True Fire. If Chinese proverbs ever taught us anything, it was "Better to light one small garage fire than curse your fellow arsonists." If justice is our domain, why are we warming these lobby chairs with our flabby asses?

I once knew a simple man from Wisconsin. He had the fire in his belly. He had the gumption to let it out, let me tell you! He set fire to a shed on his own property. He did a fine job! But later that morning, he came to me - he was a broken man. "I did the best I could!" he wailed. "I just don't got it in me, I just don't have what it takes!" He needed a shave.

Now, what do you think I told this man? That's right! I told him what we tell every man who's just starting out: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful fires can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." Well, he went out and set fire to half of LaCrosse that night! Let me tell you, that man is Bill Johnson, your treasurer! Stand up, Bill! Look at him today! He's AMAZING!

People, the One True Fire may be the next fire you set. Now, you may have your troubles. Maybe you can't find a wife. Or maybe you have a wife, but you can't find her anyway. Justice is the key. Who has the key? Dunno. Could be anyone. Could be YOU.

It's not all about lighting fires. It's not all about justice. It's about love. It's about lip service. It's about filling your cup to the rim with Brim every morning, and never saying never!

Now, don't rush out of here expecting to find justice. You won't find it out there. It's in here, in your heart. (pound chest) The One True Fire is in here. IN HERE! (pound chest) IN HERE!

Thank you, thank you.

Breaking News

I have Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4 on my computer. It was a package deal - buy this game for $1200, laptop included. I'd like to play this game, but I don't know how. I refuse to read the instructions. They're too long. I could just start playing, and learn as I go, but I can't do that either. Sounds like a waste of time. I have about 84 keys on my keyboard; learning Tony Hawk Pro Skater 4 could take years. I might just as well fell a tree, carve a board, paste on some wheels and teach myself how to skate on the kitchen linoleum. That's how kids used to learn skateboarding, before it became so commercialized.

It's More Personable Than the Magic Eight Ball

I just asked my The Literary Book of Answers if my blog is going to be the most popular blog at school, and it said, "PADDLE HOME." Then I asked if I was going to be incredibly wealthy within the next calendar year, and it said, "IT IS A FAR, FAR BETTER THING."

Well, no kidding.

Put Up Your Dukes, etc.

What did Pat Benatar mean when she sang "Hell is For Children?" Was she serious? And more importantly, will she cut another record soon? I hope so. I'm tired of today's overblown, sexy R&B. I'm tired of booty songs, I'm tired of baby boys. I need someone to acknowledge that love is a battlefield - and I need that acknowledgment in song. I need something pure, something that runs with the shadows of the night. I need something that only Pat Benatar can provide. Well, Pat? What'll it be?

I Presume You Have Her Number

Yesterday I learned how telephones work. See, you talk into your phone, and the copper wire takes your voice vibrations to the phone box, and the phone takes them to a bigger phone box, then something something something, boo, you're talking to Bo Derek.

I also learned that you can make a home intercom system with two phones, copper wire, a nine-volt battery, and a thingamagruger.

Ahab Was Born With a Hammer In His Hand

I am surprised and pleased that people stop by Topic Drift every day to study my excellent synopsis of Moby Dick. Why read the book when a synopsis will do? A good Moby Dick paper should include the bit about how the whale is a fertility symbol, and Captain Ahab was like Lincoln, in that he wanted to attack Prussia with the Monitor, but the Merrimack got there first, just like Queequeg would have. Queequeg’s speed astounded all, and one might draw parallels between his speed and the speedy rise of the Industrial Revolution, and how Melville hated machines and would have gladly married John Henry, but John Henry died fighting the machine, and gay marriage wasn’t legal back then.

All of my papers were A+ material, by the way.

The Esther Wilberforce-Packard Show

I used to be flattered that Paul Williams wrote a theme song for me, even though I was too young and unknown to be on the show. But now I'm worried that I won't live up to the lyrics. Yes, I can turn the world on with my smile, but do I ever bother? No, I do not. Certainly I can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile - I do it all the time. For myself. Other people really need to take responsibility for their own happiness. I am only one person! Besides, I can only make it all seem worthwhile. I can't actually make it worth while. And when I make it after all, I hope people remember this: I like to stay up late, get up early, and take a nap in the afternoon. Ideally.

No Matter How Fast You Interfere, a Light Stanley Fish Always Passes You

Eat your heart out, Natalie Cole! William Shakespeare and I have collaborated, despite his "deceased" status. The Mad Lib people put us in touch. They promised that the outcome would be "hilarious." I didn't laugh once while I read the outcome, but I never laugh in the afternoon, so no hard feelings. This is what the two of us have come up with so far (my Mad Lib adjustments in bold):

To be, or not to snort, -- that is the trout;
Whether 'tis nobler in the lather to suffer
The slings and nursemaids of maritime fortune,
Or to take blisters against a sea of trousers,
And by confounding end them. To die, -- to toddle, --
No more; and by a toddle to say we end
The gerbil and the 11 natural shocks
That flesh is rug merchant to,-- 'tis a gruel
promiscuously to be wish'd. To die, --- to toddle,--
To toddle! perchance to disturb! ay, there's the tart;
For in that toddle of death what vapors may come
When we have chloroformed off this tawdry coil,
Must give us boob....


I must admit, my collaboration with Art Hobbes went even better, though it began painfully:

Einstein believed that Happy Tycoon's theory should, like all other laws of cenotaph obey the principle of calamity. In other oompa loompas, Happy Tycoon's jailbait should be delicate even within any purloining reference myopia. Since speed c is built into the laws of cenotaph, Einstein mauled that every observer ought to scowl every light Stanley Fish to move at speed c, regardless of the observer's grandeur. No matter how fast you interfere, a light Stanley Fish always passes you at speed c, relative to you. This is why the idea of choke up with a light Stanley Fish seemed loathsome to Einstein. If every observer sees every light Stanley Fish move at speed c, then nobody can even begin to catch up with a light Stanley Fish, much less catch all the way up with one and scowl it at rest.

Good Times

I’m turning the comments off, am I not? Looks like it. But don’t let that stop you from commenting on Topic Drift. Write your comments on a slip of paper and pin that paper to your office cubicle. That’s what I do. Other ways to comment on Topic Drift:

1. Globe and Mail - Letters to the Editor
2. Email
3. Whisper comment into dirt hole, then plant a petunia seed
4. No graffiti – graffiti is not art
5. Skywriting is nice, within limits
6. Tell it to the Marines
7. If comment is covetous, confess to priest
8. If you’re not Catholic yet, confess to therapist
9. If you are a therapist, skywriting is nice, within limits
10. Scratch comment into dog biscuit, insert biscuit into shoe
11. Scratch comment into bottom of shoe, commit ghastly crime, leave bloody tracks
12. Write comment on eyelids, attempt to seduce Dr. Jones
13. Write Topic Drift comment on someone else’s blog
14. Carve comment into gold plates, “find” your ancient gold plates in upstate NY, translate comment, start religion, lose ancient golden plates
15. Share comment with nice family of mice

If you email a comment to me, I might post it, but only if I remember to check my email, and only if the comment passes that “global test” that everyone seems to have forgotten about.

I May Watch TV Tonight

Do you know what? It's 10:45 and I'm not even tired yet, not one bit! I thought I might watch that Dwight Eisenhower documentary on the History Channel. The way I see it, you can never know too much about America's premiere president billionaire movie producer aviator hypochondriac hermit paranoid. I watch every Eisenhower documentary I can find. I generally loathe the cinema, but Eisenhower's film Hell's Angels is probably one of my favorites. I hope to get a chance to watch it someday.

When I watch an Eisenhower documentary, I always tear up when they get to the part where Eisenhower tries to break Lindbergh's flying records, because Lindbergh lost that baby and Amelia Earhart disappeared, too. And the Spruce Goose stuff confuses the heck out of me. I like the part where the phobic Eisenhower holes up in Las Vegas with tissue boxes on his feet; it's weird, because I hide out in a germ-free zone also! Evidently he did a lot of drugs at the end of his life, and I think that's sad. We should take better care of our aging presidents. We can't keep letting them die in Vegas with hypodermic needle fragments in their arms.

I Fall Off the Wagon

Normally, I maintain a strict diet of cheese and only cheese, and normally, I try not to eat anything after noon, because I like to avoid cheese nightmares. I usually stave off the hunger pangs by smelling my lipstick. This afternoon I got a little hungry, and I ate a hockey-puck-sized piece of bucheron, and I topped that off with a half-cup of gorgonzola crumbles. Ooooooooh, howdy! I'll be murdered tonight, mark my words! Probably right after the tornado rolls through, triggering the volcano that unleashes the bleeding helldog who chases me through the Kent State campus as the National Guard starts firing and church organs fall out of the sky. Mmmm mmmmm, that's good queso.

Sweden: Looking Good, Feeling Great

I've always wondered what the Old Country looks like. Now I know: fluffy clouds, Saturn setting over a soccer pitch, haybales, harps, red carpet, angels and a scooty yellow guy. Great-Great-Grandma, why did you leave such a happy place? You left THIS for a sod house on the Plains?

Be sure to turn up the volume and put your cursor on the angel.

Andy Rooney Asked Me To Bring You This Message

There are two kinds of people walking around: those who drop things on the ground, and those who do not. Those of us who do not drop things on the ground often feel compelled to pick up what the inferior half so casually or carelessly discards. We are an incredulous lot, we picker-uppers. We know that everything that lies on the ground will continue to lie there until we pick it up. This makes us bitter and fatalistic.

Take, for example, that piece of red string on the floor. I see that string on the floor, and I don't want it there. It distracts me. It is not in its place. I know that the red string will stay on the floor until I pick it up, because the lady who dropped it doesn't care one whit. She may care that her hem is down due to the loss of the red string, but she doesn't trouble herself with the string. I will have to pick it up or look at it indefinitely. If there is one thing that I do not want to look at, it is a piece of red string on the floor.

And take, for example, the empty six-pack of MGD bottles on my neighbor's boulevard. My neighbor does not venture into his front yard more that once or twice a season. He does not bother himself with what accumulates there. He knows that whatever junk the wind does not carry away will eventually sink into the soil; I know that unless I personally enter his boulevard to clear away the offending six-pack, it will remain there until the end times, or next spring. Whichever comes first.

And whoever left the six pack behind was conscientious enough to place the empty bottles back into the box they came in. It is a strange world we live in, where a drunk man arranges his litter before throwing it on the ground.

I'm Going Into the Park To Do Pastoral Dances With You-Know-Who

I've had two cups of tea this morning and they were both perfect. Things are looking up, etc. etc.

Super Genius! I suppose I will wear my yellowest shoes.

Oyez, Oyez, Oyez: Fruit

I brought an apple home from work last night, but I didn’t eat it, so I brought it back to work today. My goal is to eat that apple at work today. I don’t want to have to haul it home again. Same goes for my orange. I’m tired of moving fruit around. I want peace.

It is important that you allow this fruit-intensive post to affect your life somehow. You may need to eat more fruit, or carry it around with you. This post is meant to influence you, to touch you. Otherwise why am I bothering with it?

What is Topic Drift?

I'm not sure what Topic Drift is supposed to be about. It was initially intended to be an Audioslave fansite. The first time I heard Audioslave, I thwapped the taxi driver's ear with my rolled-up NY Times and screeched, "WHO IS THIS?!" That was a bad move. He almost crashed the car. And as far as helping me identify the band, he was no help at all, because I was wearing headphones.

My Early Chewing Gum Experiment

Once, when I was a brilliant and popular prepubescent girl-about-neighborhood, I chewed the same piece of gum for almost two weeks. I wanted to see if I could keep one piece alive all summer. I chewed it in the morning, I chewed it on my ten-speed, I chewed it at the pool. Every night before bed I parked my gum on my bedpost. Two weeks into my experiment, my gum dissolved in my mouth; and as the gum’s astrobiochemical micro-structure gave up the ghost, I panicked and tried to spit it out, but it was all over the place! There are no words. I had to run inside and brush my teeth. Then I started over with a new piece. Then I lost interest entirely.

I chose to share this anecdote with you because it showcases some of my most bewitching qualities: my tenacity, and my willingness to give up.

I Consider Loving Things

I was trying to make a list of the things I love, but all I could come up with is KITTIES. Don’t you love CATS? Boy, I do.

I Reflect On Something

As I sit here eating Gobstopper after Gobstopper, I have to wonder: why did trick-or-treaters avoid my house last night? My house is as cozy and welcoming as a chipmunk’s log, or the Vatican, or Ma’s Pie Shack . I was even prepared to lose Butterfingers in the bargain. I don’t like Butterfingers. I suspect my disabled doorbell had something to do with the lack of ghouls. Also, I didn’t put candles in my pumpkins because I thought the house would burn down. And the porch light probably wasn’t on.

I Can Barely Believe Myself

Today I took out my winter clothes and stared at them in stunned disbelief. I must have looked like a magical, fruit-flavored nerd last winter. For example, why didn't anyone tell me that angora culottes were "out?" I distinctly remember loving myself sick in those culottes. Fickle fashion, you are my enemy. I may just stay in the bathtub all week.