...So I guess they don't make fruit-smell markers any more? I mean, they all smelled like petroleum underneath, but it was a very watermelon-y petroleum!
Natter 58: Let's call Venezuela!
Off-topic discussion. Wanna talk about corsets, duct tape, or physics? This is the place. Detailed discussion of any current-season TV must be whitefonted.
To the surprise of absolutely no one, Luke McFarlane from Brothers & Sisters has officially come out in an interview with The Globe and Mail: [link]
I need to go to work. But I'm sick! I just don't think I'm sick enough to not go to work. And I think it's a sinus infection, and probably not contagious.
Someone tell me to go to work!
I read an interesting essay a couple years back about Joyce scholars, and how they have to mollycoddle some grand-nephew of James Joyce (invite him to symposia and let him ramble at length; not publish anything embarrassing etc.) or else they can't get permission to quote from Joyce's works in their scholarship. And how it drove them all bananas, but that there wasn't anything they could do about it.
I think I read Ron Rosenbaum writing about that in Harper's. Stephen Joyce. I read another something about him recently, but I don't remember where. Rosenbaum has also been in touch with Nabokov's son, who is under orders from Nabokov's will to destroy his last, unpublished, not-quite-completed manuscript. He's told Rosenbaum that he thinks it's the best thing his dad wrote, so he can't quite decide what to do about it.
Of course, we don't know the specifics, such as "how long was he sniffing it?"
...So I guess they don't make fruit-smell markers any more? I mean, they all smelled like petroleum underneath, but it was a very watermelon-y petroleum!
Mr Sketch Scented Markers!!
They still make them. We have them here at work. I can haz frooty huffin now?
But as soon as I heard about the possibility, "swallowed along with the rest of a human race in a black hole of our own making" immediately jumped into my top five ways to die ever. It is, as these things go, relatively quick, relatively mess-free, and is one of the few ways I can think of to die that will, eventually, cause an alien to exclaim "those crazy motherfuckers did WHAT?" Monuments crumble, technology rusts and decays, but a rip in the fabric of the space-time continuum? That shit is FOREVER.
Blue Line train stuck near Clark/Lake stop: [link]