Monthly Archives: September 2020

New Land A bit shoddy this place! It has become an astounding melodramatic mediocrity — made all the more disappointing by what it claims to aspire to be. How much are you asking for it? But it’s a half-baked soap … Continue reading →

“People ask me sometimes… ‘When will there be enough women on the court?’ And my answer is: ‘When there are nine.’” — Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Storm’s-a-Coming Where are the kids? Where’s the dog? It drives my blood pressure up. I need a tunic and a tuna sandwich — make it Fuji tuna with cranberries and apples, and make the tunic combed Egyptian cotton. Stroft! I … Continue reading →

Epistemic Valve Insouciant pill pusher — writer of scrips intended to send me to oblivion, to live the life of the lotus eaters. Dr. Closer, shutter of the epistemic valve — he wants me to live the limpid life of … Continue reading →

Sour Something in the magic of the sour blueberries and yogurt made the start of the day feel somewhat violet — or should I say blue. No. Go ahead and say blew. The day blew before it really got started. … Continue reading →

Blockhead Relevance was not his strong suit. Assonance was a mildly strong point. And dissonance was his power alley. So he detuned his lyre and randomly plucked strings. He tuned his dulcimer to F sharp and struck it with claw … Continue reading →

Port of Call: Topeka, Kansas X: You purport to a port of call called Topeka, Kansas. Does the Navy have a port of call in Topeka? The navy has a port in a landlocked city, good sir? Z: What about … Continue reading →

Sacrilege Sacrilege, I say. You say, poppycock. I say we go for ice cream on a pear tree, and the partridges be damned. I have the eyeless in guaguanco player piano boll weevils in exploding plastic shades. I have a … Continue reading →

Wee Hour Verbiage Chilly Black shoots similac intravenously in the wee hours. Wee Willie Winky wanders wavering and quavering in wastrel wigwams of wanton whimsy. Chuck Zuck plucks clucking ducks out of the muck. Wither Zither moves hither and thither. … Continue reading →

Goodly Bunkum — That’s ungoodly bunkum, sir. — Huh? — Yes. That’s a good way of making no sense. “Prose is architecture, not interior decoration.” — Ernest Hemingway