Category Archives: sparkly

Real Seltzer Should Hurt

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.”

Your weekend moment of Zen

It goes bad, you know.

It goes bad, you know.

Your week­end moment of Zen is brought to you by the Bet­ter Half, who poured me my FOURTH glass of pros­ecco not long ago.

It’s true– once the bub­bles are gone, it’s no good.

Wish­ing you all a fizzy week­end with no hangovers.

Kids these days …

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?)

Feed Me Bubbe

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.

When the gays come marching in, Saturday night edition

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 TWO FIRE EATERS (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.

Happy Pride, Boston.