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By Mr. B on Four Twenty
Next week, expect the BBC to run a "features and analysis" story explaining the "33" on Rolling Rock bottles.
I see a Chinatown sequel in this somewhere, a Josh-Harnett-is-Jake-Gittes'-grandson-transplanted-Forest-Service-Detective-type thing, I'm thinking out loud now, maybe The Three Shakes. . .
Meh. I once ate an entire Maine lobster on the F train. With drawn butter. And a shrimp cocktail to start.
Saved the steak for when I got home. I mean, I'm not some kind of animal.
@KarenUhOh : YESSS these are the anecdotes for which comments were invented.
By KarenUhOh on Oysters Shucked
Years ago, back before our self-awareness became genetically coded, I boarded the Chicago "L" in the subway under State Street on a day when it had to be 90 outside and a good ten degrees north of that in the tube. Of course, the a/c on the car I entered had long ago evaporated into the great ice bucket in the sky.
Also, of course, the car was jammed. My position was standing, in front of the "handicapped" seats next to the door, where sat a woman of indeterminate age (I'd say mid-50's), who was bundled up in a winter cloth coat and woolen hat.
This lady opened a large green Tupperware container, removed a plastic fork from her coat pocket, and began to eat potato salad. "Classic" potato salad, all meaty chunks of potato and celery and olive, stagnant in a viscous goo of yellowing mayonnaise. It was obvious from the aroma that this dish had been nowhere near a refrigerator for quite some time.
Also obvious: the bundled-up lady forking this hash into her maw had a mustache. A GIANT, feathery mustache. Captain Kangaroo would have felt his lip to make sure his wasn't stolen.
Large chunks of this potato salad soon became lodged in the mustache. The lady also stoically abjured shutting her mouth as she chewed.
Next to her sat the most proper, prim lady, also "of a certain age," that you can imagine: designer business suit, spiked heels, made up within an inch of her life, even in that heat. She had been professionally oblivious through this, until the odor hit. . .and when it did, she glanced over, in that slight, sideways urban way, at what was next to her--whereupon she gagged, and placed her hand up alongside her face for the duration of her ride.
She lasted two stops.
OK, but first how do you kill and cook a wildebeest?
LW, I'm so sorry you haven't felt comfortable sharing this huge part of your life with your boyfriend for fear he won't give you the attention and care you deserve. What an awful, shaky feeling, as if the grief itself weren't hard enough.
I truly think good listening is non-negotiable. It might even be everything.
This reply was immensely therapeutic; I am a young man and feel that this describes me incredibly well. I want to talk and share! That's okay!
By Multiphasic on Small Awl Old
Imagine the inspiration were archaeologists to unearth a tarnished newsletter.
By ejcsanfran on Salman Rushdie Still Miffed At Cat Stevens For That Whole "Calling For His Death" Thing
Oooo, Salman, Salman, it's wild world...