When I Marry Queen Latifah, Kleinheider’s Totally Uninvited

Y’all, Kleinheider is so wrong today that I’m almost in awe.  No, I take that back.  I am in awe. 

Listen, the problem is clear: Kleinheider is grossed out by male on male anal sex. 

That’s fine.  I have an unnatural fear of getting cum in my eye.  We all have our hang-ups, things we don’t find erotic that other people do.  I, however, am not using my public platform to advance the idea that men who shoot cum into women’s faces are unnatural, because cum might get into their eyes.

No, I just tell my partners, please aim carefully.

Kleinheider could do likewise–he could tell his partners, I’m a little weirded out by the thought of another man’s penis in my ass.  Please refrain from putting any penises in my ass.

But no, instead he’s on a mission to fuck things up for gay people and to punish the rest as a handy side-effect, even though, I think it’s pretty safe to say that no gay men even want to have sex with him, especially not after this post.

Sadly, I suspect he’s also alienated fans of internal consistency.

Let’s turn to the nonsense, shall we?

Homosexuality is unnatural. It is “wrong” by almost any standard you measure it by. It is clear that both God and nature have rendered their verdict on the practice.


There is evidence that homosexuality is genetic. I don’t deny that.

Mr. Kleinheider, you cannot have your cake and eat it, too.  Is homosexuality “unnatural” or is it genetic?  If it is genetic, isn’t it then, by definition, natural?  How can anything go against nature?  As the old song says, you cannot go against nature, because, even going against nature is a part of nature, too.

Marriage is between one man and one woman. God and tradition have taught us this is true.

Have they?  Really?  God says that marriage is between one man and one woman?  Where?  Because I’m looking at the Old Testament here and seeing shitloads of polygamy.  Kleinheider, are you saying that the Bible is not the word of God?

As for tradition, whatever.  It’s traditional for men to get married right after college.  You married, Kleinheider?  Or doesn’t that tradition count?

In the end, of course, I agree with you.  State-sanctioned marriage should be done away with.  Y’all can just take your ball and go home, sit in your house and pout about how unnatural and ungodly the rest of us are. 

But, really, I’d rather you just get your head out of your ass and come join us out here in the paradigm where people get married because they love each other and have sex because it’s fun and it feels good and no one gives a shit who does what with whom except to gossip about it over lunch the next day.

It’s not nearly as scary a world as it looks.  You can come sit by me and I promise, I’ll protect you from any errant penises.

Coble Makes Me Snort Diet Coke Out My Nose

Ouch.  Not cool.

But check her out in the comments to this post:

(Warning, I’m about to post the Diet Coke Snorting words.  Set down your drinks.)

I saw him on Dinner For 5 and he went on and on about how he has major social anxiety problems. Which, given how many people loathe him, is understandable.

Aw, poor Jay Mohr.  Is it wrong that I secretly would love to see him and Denis Leary make out?

Methodist in Exile

One important thing to remember, or so I’m told, when interviewing folks for the play is to not let your own story get in the way of what they’re saying.

Last night I did an interview that blew my mind to the point where every time I sit down to write about it, I get caught up in how I felt, what I brought away from it, instead of settling down and getting to what they said.

So, I thought I’d get my shit out of the way here.

I left Christianity for a couple of reasons–1.  I was pissed off at the raw deal we’d gotten and angry that we were just supposed to accept it as god’s will and 2. I was tired of being pissed off and angry.

But my understanding of Christianity has been so profoundly influenced by this idea that, if you’re not suffering, you’re not doing it right and that your faith journey is just about you and Jesus alone in some fucked up S&M relationship, where he proves how much he loves you by heaping on the pain and agony.

So, talking to these folks who don’t at all experience a relationship with god as an occasion for transcendence through misery just blew me away.

Also, all of my questions were irrelevant to them.  So, that was a little awkward.  But I think it’s a good perspective to have and important.

But my point is that I was raised Methodist.  And not just twice a year Methodist, but every day at the church for one reason or another Methodist, whole extended family Methodist, O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing Methodist.

You don’t just stop being Methodist just because you practice something else, just like you don’t stop being a tuba player, even if you switch to flute.  You might be rusty after not playing for a while, but you don’t forget the sights and sounds and smells.

If I don’t get married, when I die, they’ll have a Methodist funeral for me, most likely and little old Methodist women will make my family a dinner afterwards.

That’s okay.

It’s a place I know and love–Christianity–I just can’t go back there.

I guess I’m also feeling a little jealous, but mostly I feel this enormous sense of relief to know that some folks don’t have to leave, that they stay and build happy lives for themselves, ones that aren’t organized around learning to accept suffering as your lot.

Bad Storms on Their Way

I had a headache so bad after work that I got home and the dog’s barking made me want to throw up.  I’ve taken 800 milligrams of ibuprofen, though, and that seems to have knocked it loose.

I was concerned, though, because when I took the dog out, I kept seeing these flashes out of the corner of my eye–a sure sign of more nausea–but upon closer evaluation, Mrs. Wigglebottom was able to determine that those flashes were lightning bugs, and nothing for me to be concerned about.

So, I think that, if I can get some sleep, I’ll be fine in the morning.

If Fate Won’t Do It, I Will

I’ll just warn you right up front that this whole post makes me howl with laughter.  But it could be a kind of idiosyncratic humor that fails out there in the real world.  Read on with that caveat in mind.

Because fate has not seen fit to bring together Sarcastro, the Nashville Knucklehead, and CeeElCee, I’m forced to do it myself.  Sadly, I don’t have time today to run around town kidnapping old men in their forties and forcing them to drink beer and gab for my amusement and so I’ve done the next best thing and brought their blogs together.

Let’s see what happens.

Imagine with me a hot day at the end of May.  A conversation between three men…

Knuck:  I’m going to spend all day today pondering questions like, “can I just use joist hangers for those stair stringers or do I need to use lag bolts?” and “can I just bury those two by tens when the ramp gets to the ground, or do I need to cut them?” or, “is this hole deep enough to support that post?”

Sarcastro: One of the cornerstones of my hyphenated-American culture is working in the yard.

Knuck:  You see it coming, don’t you? If you know the answers to those kind of questions, come on by and help.

CeeElCee: I now have several good friends who are nurses at various hospitals around town.

Knuck: I’m nervous as hell. I’m nearly broke.

CeeElCee (an aside to Sarcastro): When he talks, he sounds just like Michael Waltrip on the Domino’s Pizza commercials.  Creepy.

Sarcastro (musing on the state of the world):  The rest of the country views us as backwards shit kickers.

CeeElCee: Who lets their fourteen year old daughters walk around a stadium in low-slung cut off sweat pants and a mini halter top rolled up under their boobs and “USA” painted across their bellies?

Sarcastro: We will remain backwards country folk with a big ol’ buildin’. 

Knuck:  I make the best damn BBQ I have ever eaten in my life.

Sarcastro: Sir, you need to step up.  Time’s a wastin’ and history is awaiting. 

Knuck:  The requirements are ridiculous.

CeeElCee: Do you remember back when you were 17?

Sarcastro: My inner fourteen year old boy is eagerly awaiting any pics of Holly Thompson at this year’s Steeplechase. 

CeeElCee:  She has had no problem letting me pet her or rub her belly.

Knuck: I agreed to do it for a blowjob.

Sarcastro: I need a beer.  Preferably a Shiner, Abita, or Sweetwater.

Knuck:  I bought two Heinekens…

CeeElCee:  We came up with a suitable solution. We skimmed the till on you.

Well, there you go, folks.  I’ll admit.  I was hoping for a little more high-browed discussion, but you take what you can get.


Yet Another Reason I’m Glad the Butcher Lives Here

I woke up at three to go to the bathroom and I opened my bedroom door only to be greeted by the sounds of men in my living room laughing.  The whole house was just full of the low rumble of old friends trying to be quiet as they one-up each other telling stories about crazy ex-girlfriends or stupid work things or whatever else they were laughing about.

It’s such a nice, comfortable noise.

And it’s funny, because I know the Butcher is a hoot, but there’s something about seeing how he is with Manny that is downright silly.

Did I tell you that Manny brought us all John Deere stuff?  He builds enormous John Deere trucks and one of the first things he did when he got here was to show us pictures of all his “babies.”  Yesterday, he finally bought some shorts to wear.

As we say down here, bless his heart.


Does this Make Me Appliance-Sexual?

My dishwasher has been having a little problem with the part that extends up and shoots water towards the top rack.  Once it’s done its business, it doesn’t go back down.

This is, one assumes, because someone put something with potting soil on it in the dishwasher (and since I’ve been neglecting the dishwashing duties of late…) and there’s grit keeping it from going back down.

So, I have this brilliant idea…

Yes, let’s just right up front acknowledge that I’m using “brilliant” to mean that there’s a 50/50 chance that I’ve done something so monumentally stupid that you’ll have to read it twice to take in that I’ve done it at all.

I’ll just pour regular dish soap all over it in an effort to clean it up.

So, there I am, leaning into the dishwasher, coaxing the tube upwards, spreading the slick goo all over it, running my hand up and down the shaft, and it’s got me thinking that, for all practical purposes, I just gave my dishwasher one hell of a handjob.

The shaft goes up and down no problem now, but I know running the dishwasher is going to result in bubbles everywhere.  I think I’ll leave a note asking the Butcher to run it before he goes to bed.

Because, I’m nice like that.

All My Immediate Family

About the time you’re flipping to the other line on your phone to say "Well, Dad says to tell you that he doesn’t know for sure what time they’ll be here" only to hear the recalcitrant brother say, "Well, you tell Dad…" you come to realize that, not only are they all truly coming here on Friday, they appear to be fixing for a fight.

My plan is to change my name to Uncle B. and pretend I am someone who doesn’t know them, but was just unfortunately abandoned along the side of the interstate by my cruel family who had grown tired of my Korean war stories and taken in by The Butcher, out of kindness.

This War Erases the Difference Between Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day

I hate seeing comparisons between this war and Vietnam, in part because I don’t believe any good comes from treating suffering like a competition, and in part because it grosses me out when people start talking about how it would be nothing in that war to lose as many soldiers as we’ve lost in this whole war in a month.

Of course, what’s lacking in that analysis is how many soldiers are living through catastrophic injuries that would have been deadly thirty five years ago.  This is what I mean when I say that this war erases the difference between Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day.  We act like it’s some great testament to how well we make war that we’re making more living veterans, when, in part, it’s just a testament to how well we patch them up.

Well, then, I refuse to buy into that.  I refuse to say that this day is for the dead and that day is for the living.  Because it’s not as if two days is one too many to think carefully about what we’re asking the men and women of the armed services to do.

I do believe that it’s unpatriotic to not support our troops.  We elect this government–we’re, in the end, responsible for what it does.  We owe it to the people who have to implement our will to support them as they do that.

But, I think it’s clear that we, for too long, have believed that supporting our troops means unquestioning cheerleading of the things they’re doing, when really, supporting our troops means demanding accountability from the people in charge of deciding what our military should be doing.

I know there’s this tendency to look at the price we’re paying–thousands dead, thousands more wounded–and to feel the enormity of that cost… well, I can understand why some folks become committed to the idea that we’re doing The Right Thing.  If we’re not, how do we justify what we’re putting our families, friends, and neighbors through?

But it’s important to realize how dangerous that is, to unquestioningly believe that we’re doing the right thing.  When the price is so high–rows and rows of stones or lines of teary-eyed old men who still can’t talk about what happened to them–we should be weighing that cost against the worth of our assets every day.

It just pisses me off so much that we’re so careless with these lives.  Yes, sometimes war is the only way.  I know that.  But it should always be a last resort.  We should go to war infrequently and, when we do, we should go to win, with enough troops and resources and a game plan in place that is also open to revision if it’s not meeting our needs.

We don’t have that.

Here’s what I’d like to happen.  In honor of our troops, living and dead, vote the motherfuckers out.  Republican or Democrat, who gives a shit?  If they’re in there now, bring them home.

It’s clear to me that, though we don’t agree on what the proper course of this country should be, there’s an overwhelming sense on every side of every aisle that we’re not on it.

We’re spinning our wheels.  While our wheels spin, our troops are fighting a war they cannot win and thus their wheels spin, and in the meantime, for show, we’re presented with a fake fight between the two political parties, to maintain the illusion that they’re doing something, when really they’re just spinning their wheels.  The only difference is that their wheel-spinning comes at the cost of our lives, our constitutional rights, and our civil liberties.

Folks, they aren’t going to suddenly wake up tomorrow and start doing right.

If there’s going to be a change, we have to do it.  We can start by relieving incumbent politicians of their jobs.

Belated Birthday Surprise

My friend, M., who I have known since the fourth grade, but haven’t spoken to in a year, called me last night.  She’s an actor in Chicago.  One of my favorite things about visiting her has always been going to see her in these funky plays.  Once she was in an all-female cast of Everyman, which was most memorable because God stood on a catwalk above the stage and threw flaming tissues down onto the sinners.  And once she was in a play where a man inexplicably dropped his pants and began to read from the Bible, much to the delight of the audience.

Anyway, all this is to say that she’s been in theater, real theater, almost half her life.  And so when I told her about my little adventure into theater-making, I felt a little like I was one of Ben or Jerry’s friends telling them I’d bought myself a little ice cream churn.

Still, she was really cool about it and excited for me and it made me even more excited.

Here’s the deal.  I’ve often thought "Gosh, I’d love to be a real writer" but when it comes down to plugging away at a screen with no one to look at what I’ve written but me and whoever I can guilt into it, I just lose enthusiasm for the work.

That’s what I love about blogging–you throw out some ideas, you get some feedback, you come at those ideas from a slightly different way next time, you get more feedback.  Writing in this setting isn’t about a finished, set, product, but about circulating ideas and clarifying what you think.  I love to blog because, when I write, I know you, whoever you are, will read it.

And this is what I’m totally loving about this whole playwriting process.  There are deadlines and you must meet them and we get together and we go over what we have and how it’s going to fit together and someone says "What if we tried this piece, but from this perspective?" and it doesn’t feel like a criticism of what I’ve done–like what I’ve done isn’t good enough–but it feels much more like the blogging process–you throw out some ideas, you get some feedback, you come at those ideas from a slightly different way next time.

It’s pretty incredible.


Following My Heart Home

So, I was over at the Playwright’s working on the Faith & Doubt play, which is coming together so quickly I about can’t believe it (which reminds me that I’m still waiting to hear from some of you about whether I can immortalize you).  It’s just amazing. 

Afterwards, we went on a… shall we say field trip?  We went on a little field trip on behalf on one of the people present.  I’ve been there before.  I’ve just never taken anyone with me.  I wasn’t sure how it’d go.

It went really well.  I pulled her right over and pulled the other girl in the room over with us, even though I’d intended for her to stay behind.

Here’s a couple of things that were weird or really cool.  One is that, even though we sat facing, when we’d notice the same thing, it’d be on both our same sides.  So, like if I noticed something on my right side, she also felt it on her right side, even though it would have seemed like she should have felt it on her left side.  Another is that at the end, in order to ground before breaking out of the circle, I put her hand in dirt, mine in water, and I could just feel this massive amount of energy drain off.

Ha, we might be dangerous if we ever got up to something other than sightseeing.

Anyway, I got home and was just famished.  I ate and ate and am still hungry except I feel like I might throw up.

But, damn, it was amazing.

The Yellow Brand Hammer Company

I was going to sit down and write y’all a long post on white-boy blues.  I was going to start with Tom Petty’s “Honey Bee,” move on to the White Stripes’ “Ball and Biscuit,” and finish up with the “Whole Lotta Love” medley from Zeppelin’s BBC recordings.

But I heard “Give me some sugar, little honey, little bee” as I was opening the “Persnickety Alpha Male” t-shirt I got for YBHC and I instead decided to write about him.

YBHC is mostly the Butcher’s friend.  This is my fault, as I never tag along when asked.  I’m not sure what my deal is, but there you go.

YBHC is cool.  He’s kind of a little taller than you expect, and he’s got himself a shaggy haircut that hangs all in his face and some dark glasses.  He’s usually got a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.  He’s exactly the type of guy who could pull of a “persnickety alpha male” t-shirt even though no one would ever accuse him of being any of those things, except male.

He’s laid back and constantly kind of distracted.  He’s cute as all hell, but lacks swagger.

The thing I like best about him is that he surrounds himself with his art.  And he’ll fill your life with it as well.  We’ve got this naked big titted woman in our bathroom that he drew and some weird smoky lightbulb picture in a frame.

I kind of admire that about him, that art doesn’t seem like something far off and proper, it’s just something that he does.  His casual talent is pretty awesome.

And so I guess “casual talent” brings us back to the boys at the beginning of the post.  There’s nothing unpracticed about it.  That’s not what I mean by “casual talent.”

Hmm.  Well, let me get at it another way.  My co-worker’s husband is a guitar player.  He plays around town some and I’ve been lucky enough to see him.  The thing that’s so cool about watching him play is that he doesn’t look like he’s trying very hard.  His fingers just go where they’re supposed to go when they’re supposed to go there and he doesn’t have to concentrate to make that happen.

I’m sure he has had to practice like hell to get to that point, but when you see him play, it seems casual.

So these three songs seem like that to me, too.  The thing that’s amazing to me about the Zeppelin piece is that it really starts to feel like some kind of seance, like they’re invoking all the old bluesmen who’ve influenced them and are letting them pour through them and onto you, the listener.  Every time I hear this, it’s all I can do not to drive to Memphis.

But my point is that they can do that because they aren’t thinking about how to play what they’re playing.  They just play.

YBHC?  He just is, too.

And I think that’s important.  “Just be” sounds like “sit quietly and empty yourself of everything that is not you.”  But sometimes “just be” sounds loud and thumping and growling and… yeah, sometimes “just be” is all about getting beyond self-discipline.

When Girls Walk

1.  Mrs. Wigglebottom and I took a loop around the back part of the park, which was good.  It cleared my head.  The sun coming through the leaves was just breathtaking.  Some of the trees seem to reach a particular height and then branch out way up high, so they’re shaped kind of like tall Ys.  I can’t help but think, when I see them all stopping at the same height, that this is kind of what a fish must see–dark and somewhat green and you look up and all the plants end at the same level and then there’s the sun.

There’s all this tall grass at the park too–rows of lowercase i-es–


–and Mrs. Wigglebottom darted in and out of them like an adventurous tilde.

So, if you want to see what my trip to the park looked like, it was something like this:


2.  On Friday I read this story about these 500 Spanish women who were being marched by the King of Spain and his men towards the Moors as a trade: 500 beautiful Spanish women and the Moors wouldn’t attack.

On the way there, the women all took off their clothes and began to walk naked.  But once they approached the Moorish outpost, the women all put their clothes back on.

"What are you doing?"  The king asks.

"It wouldn’t do for men to see us naked," remarks one of the women.

God, I love these Golden Age Spanish women!

Live Blogging This Idiocy

8:25–Fucker just called me a cock hole.

8:35–“What are you doing?” “Taking my contacts out.” “Outside?”

8:37–“Her readers will probably kick your ass.”

8:42–“I think that ‘Riding Dirty’ is about his lawyer.”

8:45–Ha, these fuckers are not as funny as the “cock hole” comment would have suggested.

8:47–“Who’s this?” I think it’s Alanis Morrisette.” “Come back as the lead singer of Linkin Park?”


H[a]ppy Evening

I was thinking about we took the dog to Louisiana, and sometimes we’d leave her back at the campsite and run into New Orleans and how finally she was like, you will not leave me again, fuckers.  And so my dad was like, fine and so we drove into town with the dog and it was so fucking hot that my dad was all like, we just can’t leave her in the van.  And my mom was all like, well, we can’t go wandering around the French Quarter with her.  And so my dad just left the fucking van running with the dog sitting in air conditioned comfort.

Because, really, who’s going to break into a van with fucking Wigglebottom waiting inside for them?

In other news, I would have made a terrible h[a]ppy [person].  I think I burnt my thumb on the fucking lighter [I need to light these beautiful candles].

Come home, boys!  Help me fix myself up right [by setting a mood of calm relaxation].


Porn for Everyone

So, you may be wondering, what did we do all day?

First, Sarcastro duct taped my mirror back on.  Is there anything he can’t do?  Thank you, Mr. Smartypants.

Then we–Manny and I–went to eat.  Then we went to Target.  And then we went to the Hustler store.  That was fun, in its own way, but then!!!!  We’re getting ready to check out and probably between fifty and a hundred folks show up all wearing blue and some with blue blindfolds on and they line up on both sides of Church street.  There were young kids there and a lot of teenagers and some folks were reading from their Bibles and there was a guy with a camera who was filming the front of the store and who filmed us. 

So, I was on the phone with the Professor giving her the play by play of the ridiculousness from our end.

And Manny was all hollering things at them.

It was awesome!

Wow! Why are all these songs three minutes long?

Yesterday I got to hear Nolan Porterfield talk about the history of recording devices.  He was talking about how someone was all excited about their new mode of inquiry.  They were going to set out to discover why all old songs were three minutes long or less.

No great reason, just that that’s how much recording time you had.

So, then, he turns to this question–“Why does all our American music have its roots in the South?”

Is it because of the unique mixture of religion and culture, with a dash of “too hot to do anything else?”

Or is it because the South was just far enough away from New York City and Washington DC to seem exotic but close enough that you could easily get there by train?

I’ll give you three guesses which Nolan Porterfield is leaning towards.

Speaking of country music, it seems some of you read the fantastic Living in Stereo*.  It’s not limited to just country music, but the latest post is about the rules for writing about country that Cheryl Cline came up with.  My favorite?

3.  Deplore it’s imagined shortcomings when compared to Black music. (Example: the blues is life-affirming; country is fatalistic.) BE SURE to mention that country-rock is the domain of disaffected middle-class white boys.

I see this pretty frequently and I always wonder if the author has any experience with the blues other that The Blues Brothers.  Not that there’s anything wrong with The Blues Brothers, I’m just saying.



*Hi, David!  Please don’t narc me out to the Man.

Help Me, Faithful Readers!

The Butcher’s friend is here.  Let’s call him Manny.  So, Manny is here.  The Butcher doesn’t have a day off until Tuesday.  What do I do with him all weekend?

Sure, there’s that.  But this is the kind of dude who calls condoms “beef sleeves” and I’m sorry.  I just can’t fuck a guy who thinks there’s something funny about referring to anything as a “beef sleeve.”  It’s just a hang-up I have.  It gives me the heebie jeebies.

Though, he does have great big hands and nice, thick round fingers…

Ha, anyway.  Last night I took them to Sportsmen’s Grill.  I was thinking about taking him to Jack Daniels, but I spent all my extra money at Sportsmen’s Grill last night.

He tried to get up at 6:00 this morning when Bart did and I had to beg him to just go back to bed.  Luckily, he was still pretty drunk so he concurred.

But folks!  Help!  What can we do?

Also, if any of you within driving distance have duct tape and taping skills, I could use some help.  On a totally unrelated matter, I swear.

Porn for Women

Peg got me thinking in that other thread about what kinds of titles I’d have in my catalog if I had a porn empire actually devoted to things women find erotic.

In my soft-core line for straight women, I’d have the following:

1.  Men doing ordinary things while naked

2.  Men peeing their names in the snow

3.  Men in uniforms grinning like they want to be up to no good with you

4.  Half-naked construction workers.  Hell, this could be the soft-core porn for moms.  You know they have those construction DVDs for kids, where it’s all big trucks and big cranes just driving around being trucks and cranes and the kids love them?  We’ll just stick some hot construction workers in there for Mom.  No need to thank me.

5.  Audio books of Sean Connery reading poetry.  Shoot, or audio books of me reading poetry, as a way to move my straight audience into my bisexual audience and sell them twice as much stuff.

Marvel at my genius!

The Neo-Tribal Midwesterner

"I had the best luck on the plane today.  Not only were there hot girls on the plane, they talked to me."

And with that, the Butcher’s old friend settled in just like he’d always been here.  He’s here for the week, so he’s going to need a nickname, but I haven’t settled on one.

The Butcher votes for "Aboriginal A."  I’m leaning towards… I don’t know.


What Do You Look Like Naked?

That’s what I spent the day wondering.  Not you guys.  The people in the room with me.

Also, I’ve been thinking and, if I had a penis, I’d regularly pee on things.  Awesome peeing ability and the twenty cents an hour more y’all get–I’m a little envious of those two things.

Now, I can’t decide between a nap and a beer.

Reviews of the Future!

1.  My day–I’m going to give it a three out of five.  I have to sit all day listening to lectures, but they should be interesting.  And, if not, I’ll get some reading done.  Or, I’ll skip out early.  Still, academics, if I could teach you one thing, it would be this–loosen up.  If you’re doing what you love, let your love for that come though.  If you aren’t doing what you love, don’t take it out on me.

2.  The chances of the house getting picked up before the Butcher’s friend gets here–Zero out of five.  It’s a pit.  I haven’t done dishes since 1937 and something smells, though that may be me.

3.  The Sagas of the Icelanders–Four out of five.  I’m really excited about reading it.  I’m to the part in the introduction where they talk about how the saga writers would throw poetry into the sagas in order to prove that they were true.  No one thought that a poet would dare lie, so including poetry in your saga was kind of equivalent of footnoting it.

4.  The Butcher, upon waking–Two out of five.  He’s not going to be thrilled when I tell him we have to run by work and pick up some boxes before going over to the thing.  And he’s not going to be thrilled when I suggest he duct tape the mirror back on the car.