Top three headlines from the November issue of Martha Stewart Living:
“Organizing Pots and Pans.”
“Ironing a Table Cloth”
“Pantries of Maine”
2:42 p.m.
Category: categories
Ha! If you haven’t seen the Adcritic ad for the Dodge Aries, it’s a good one.
9:46 a.m.
Someone at this ad agency is no longer employed. Here’s a brief article about what happened. Stolen from metafilter.4:41 p.m.
Washington Post columnist Gene Weingarten set out to see if PR flaks would tell humiliating stories about themselves, knowing that they’d be printed, if Weingarten agreed to write glowingly about their client’s product in the same article. A surprising number of them agreed.
2:35 p.m.
God, I love the Martha Stewart magazine. She writes an editorial every month in which she reminisces about Christmases, or Easters, or Summers of yore. She types out her 1,000 words, blissfully unaware that one or two paragraphs in each essay are disturbing. Here, she waxes nostalgic about her daughter’s days at summer camp:
“My frequent letters to her, she says, often mentioned misspelled words in her letters, with corrections. And there were envelopes addressed to people I thought she should write to, stamped and ready to send�these displeased her a lot, especially when they were addressed to people she barely knew.”
11:03 a.m.
Lanugo– a coat of delicate, downy hairs, especially those that cover a human infant.
3:09 p.m.
NADS. The unfortunate acronym of the National Association for Downs Syndrome.
11:04 a.m.
Yesterday I saw a piece of graffiti that read, “Bongo?”
I said, “Yes, please” and waited for drumming hippies to stampede out of Starbucks.
Nothing happened.9:54 a.m.
I’m on the train this morning when I start paying attention to what I’m thinking. It goes like this, “Picante picante picante picante picante.” I must have read it on a sign somewhere.
After noting that my at-rest mental processes are those of a five year old, I start thinking of other words that stick in my head:
gouache Donahue torpor punctilio albondigasThat last one is the spanish word for meatballs. Albondigas, albondigas, albondigas. 4:43 p.m.
Last night I went to an ’80s bar where they had two rooms. One was for the Madonna-Prince boppers, one for the Morrisey-Cure ghoulies. Anyway, I was headed past the bar when I got shoved into this guy. We looked at each other for a second, and he grabbed my shoulder:
Guy: Do I know you?
Me: Yep.
Guy: From where?
Me: Sacramento.
Guy: Yeah! Where did we meet?
Me: You were the stripper at my birthday party.
Guy: Ha! Right!
Me: What are you doing in the city?
Guy: I’m an investment banker.
Of course.
9:29 a.m.
Mighty Girl 