A classic. And more puzzlin’ evidence that the Edgefield Advertiser is not only South Carolina’s oldest newspaper, but also the world’s best piece of journalism. This story deserves a place amongst David Byrne’s True Stories, no?
Alas, the Advertiser has been pretty tame in recent years, and Mr. Turner himself passed a few years back.
And Buddy Holly Hunter S. Thompson Twins.
Here’s a fun word blog from the Times that I hadn’t seen before: “a repository of unconsidered lexicographical trifles.”
And just try to tell me this makes any sense at all.
Click the picture and skip forward to about 2:00 for the interview with Lt. Dan Choi.
Interesting piece in the NYTimes Style section: Can a Boy Wear a Dress to School? A balanced look, I think, at the difficulty schools have in weighing safety, school environment and dress codes against students’ rights to express themselves through dress.
Our middle school is considering uniforms next year, which I think is just awful. It may make it easier for the administrators to police dress, but middle schoolers are at the age where they are starting to ramp up the “who am I?” identity experimentation. It is absolute eye candy to watch them come in to school when I work the Ambassador Desk. All so very different from one another, and most of that expressed in rather unique ways through their dress, hair and jewelry. They’ll change it next week when they try on a new identity, but that’s their job at 13 and 14.
The story makes me realize that this acceptance I see here at my kids’ school is happening all over the country. Change is a-comin’. Kyle is lamenting Maine’s vote on Tuesday, and reading this makes me wish I could wave a wand and make things the way they ought to be. I know it’s not soon enough, and I know it should be right now. And I completely agree that civil and human rights cannot be left to the majority.
But the younger the voter, the more likely to say, “That’s just Jack,” as the Times story concludes. The only friend of Warren’s who has ever argued with me that there is “anything wrong with that” turned out to kidding me, and gay himself. Out at 14. And his friends are just fine with that. These kids have only four years until they can vote. Their older friends are ready to tip the balance as bigoted old dudes exit the scene.
And in case you’ve been wondering, here’s an update on our fame-seeking Jonathan, who chose the home of Dent Myers and mandatory gun ownership as an audience for his fashion revue.
The Georgia Trust last week announced its annual Places in Peril list. My first thought was that this year’s list will do a much better job of focusing public attention on endangered historic buildings around the state. Why? Because the list is full of well-known places with more connections to more people than in previous years. The mental hospital Milledgeville has always been known for, Finster’s Paradise Gardens, the Auburn Avenue home of Atlanta Life, Morris Brown and its clocktower, Capricorn Studios in Macon.
I drive by Herndon Plaza almost every day. It’s on Auburn Avenue just past the new Atlanta Life headquarters. Ivy creeps up the walls. Homeless folks sit on the steps. The windows are boarded up in the worst looking way, and the exterior trim rots away. It seems to me such a shame that this former symbol of the economic health of Black Atlanta is stuck in some sort of ownership limbo while the surrounding area slowly but surely gains new footing.
I received the best thank-you note ever the other day. I had sent a copy of The Joy of Cooking to a bride, following my rule of thumb that all young ladies require a copy in their kitchens. What household should be without this kitchen encyclopedia? Everything from cuts of meat to baking pan capacities (my favorite) to basic sauces to table settings. At one point I had three editions but gave one up for shelf space.
What I didn’t realize is that this particular bride is not (yet) known for success in this department. Thus her letter noted the appropriateness of the gift for a “turd in the kitchen.”
There’s an image for you: a turd in the kitchen.
So here’s a scatalogical meditation on the word “turd.” You can’t say it without giggling, can you? It just conjures up such visuals.
Now that we have a dog, I have more occasion to consider the term. But it had disappeared from my lexicon until a few years ago, when Jennifer introduced my kids to it at the beach. Of course it was Jaffner who corrupted me at a young age with turd-forerunners “doo doo” and “poo poo,” repeating them until I quit telling her she was bad and started giggling with her. Let it be noted that Jaffner continues to be a bad influence on me to this day, shocking me with definitions of unmentionables from the Urban Dictionary.
I know you all join me in wishing the newlywed good clean old-fashioned success in her kitchen as she grows older. But I hope she never forgets that it was she who coined the (soon-to-be-famous) phrase “turd in the kitchen.” Somebody make an Urban Dictionary entry for her, OK?
The morning after. Ben’s fresh eggs for the Littles. A trip to WaHo for the Bigs.
Hi ho, hi ho, to Waffle House we go.
Even nasty, rainy, cold weather can’t ruin Halloween. First, the Littles had a football game from 5 to 7 — who’s idea was that? We only had one group of trick or treaters, the little boys from the corner.
I do not remember a Halloween that it has rained on these kids. Since Warren was one and a half until last year, my kids spent Halloween with Jane’s kids. Lyta’s Will joined us at some point along the way. They all seriously though they were cousins.
Now the big ones are all grown up and off in different directions, so Lyta and I dropped off the Littles and went visiting ’round the ‘hood by ourselves. Personally, I think we’re adjusting pretty well to being dumped by our boys. We just hosted an adult party instead (wish Jane could’ve been here) – imagine that!
I’m waiting for a picture of Max’s Jesus and Max’s dad’s pumpkin head, and I can’t believe I don’t have a picture of Warren in whatever character he landed in. Here are the highlights at this point.
