Here’s a piece in the NYT about the seltzer deliveryman of Brooklyn, who fell and hurt himself, depriving two hundred customers of actual hand-pushed seltzer, complete in antique seltzer containers. And this is why I love the NYT, even when sometimes their slip in editorial standards sends me, weeping and clicking, to the Guardian.co.uk site. Human interest stories, pieces about “hunh, never thought about that before” slices of life just slay me when they’re written like this.
“Real seltzer should hurt,” is how one person describes the difference from the store-bottled stuff.
If that isn’t an invitation to run and find out, I don’t know what is. Off I go, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi in my new quest for “real seltzer.”
The husband upgraded the version of WordPress I use yesterday, which involved a fair amount of cussing at the site host server– #&*&%^&%$ timed logouts and non-intuitive layout and fucked up contradictory upload and ftp client server sections, GoDaddy can Yo Mama as far as the BH is concerned– and then a certain amount of $&^$%*&* and site-related HUNH? once that was done because one of the config files had a typo of some sort in it. I almost sort of stayed awake, though, (and got some dishes done) and though I’d never have figured out what was wrong once the upload of the new program was done and it turned out all was not right in the config files in Denmark, I’m going to play around on the back end of this here little blog with the new features and plugins and add-ons for the next week or so.
So… if something new bugs the crap out of you or doesn’t work right or … whatever, just let me know. Right now I’m all “Three columns!” and “I did just fine without all these new features!” and “It didn’t do that before!” I’m starting to sound like Grandpa Simpson.
Now, where’re my pants?
(Also, and completely unrelated, I may have spent an hour I’ll never get back watching the newest episode of Glee on the Hulu this morning. Not that I care. Jane Lynch could star in a show about paper bags and I’d watch it. Although … I was a drama club geek in high school, so no matter the field hockey team and valedictorian shit, the urge to Hey, kids, let’s put on a Show!!! *Insert Jazz Hands Here* runs strong in my blood. Not that I can sing for shit, but there are always roles in musicals for that precise purpose. Bonnie in Anything Goes and Eulalie MacKechnie Shin in Music Man, anyone?)
I wanted to use the Yiddish term Bubbe yesterday– when I googled it, this was the number one page-ranked result– an actual guy’s Bubbe, giving lessons in kosher cuisine on You Tube. (Teh You Tubes for you younger kids.) I haven’t watched it all the way through, but it just kills me in all the best ways to know this lady has a You Tube Channel.
It’s Gay Pride weekend here in Boston– today was the parade and tomorrow’s the AIDS Walk. The section of Boston we live in has a nice share of gay and lesbian residents and all day today we’ve seen people in superhero and other rainbow colored costumes walking down our street to the T Station. As I write this post, the Pride Parade’s over, because a troop of 20 people with spandex and wigs and lame shoes and tights and capes and neon lit hula hoops and TWOFIREEATERS (I shit you not) just walked up the street toward a house at the end, led by an accordion player and three bongo drummers along with one of those Middle-Easterny-snake-charming-flutey thingies, singing “When the gays come marching in.”
The drummers have set up in the street and man, they’re good. It’ll be fun to see how long they play tonight. It’s 1030 now, and weekend curfew is 12, I think. Hope they can whoop it up until then, the neighborhood’s a bit staid otherwise.
