it begins

So here we are.

The fun is just beginning. Uh-oh. That’s right, uh-oh. 

I’m not talking about the “fun”-by-”fun”-I-don’t-mean-fun-at-all of the very serious Hurricane Sandy (a.k.a. Frankenstorm, Crazy Wench, Shelf-Clearer) that is coming our way. That’s an actual uh-oh, and I hope that everyone stays safe. No, the fun of which I speak is actual, real, good-time fun. Uh-oh. 

guest editorial

So here we are.

I am sure that after two years you devoted dozens must be tired of reading posts that are from my same, tired, warped, food-centric, underemployed, Generation X, puppeteer’s point of view. 

In the spirit of presenting diverse voices and opinions, we have a special guest with us today: the bird inside the Flintstones’ camera.

you

So here we are.

I have been so selfish. All this time I’ve been writing about me and my adventures, or my lack of adventures, or the contents of my discontent. But I’m sure that there’s been so much going on with all of you that I’ve just plain ignored. This is just plain wrong of me. I bet you’ve been doing great things. And I’m pretty durned positive that you’ve had a couple of birthdays in the past two years.

if reduxx

So here we are.

Once upon a time, Rudyard Kipling wrote the poem If. It’s a lovely poem, but definitely a man’s poem written in the Era of Men. When you read it (here, if you like), you can practically smell the tobacco and the Y chromosomes.

I am reminded of it whenever I have to take the subway or bus during the morning rush: If you can keep your head when all about you/Are losing theirs and blaming it on you. Lately, though, it’s taken on a whole new freshness in the context of the current election season.

Still, it made me wonder what sort of similar poem would be written today, in this brave new Era, for those feminine souls who only have X chromosomes... and so I wrote it:

pumpkininininny

So here we are.

It’s amazing. Every year it’s the same thing. Once Labor Day has come and gone, there’s a day -- a single day -- when the temperature drops below 70 degrees Fahrenheit, and within hours, it happens: Everything around me suddenly becomes pumpkin-ed.