Goings-On

Physical therapy: a place where you go and pay people money to force you to move about in ways designed to cause pain to your injured joint, so you can return home and resume sitting still so as not to cause pain to your injured joint. Makes sense.

There are electrodes and gels and many unidentifiable apparati. I think the physical therapists might be evil wizards, though it will take six more weeks of twice-weekly visits to be sure.

TIL

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Building teh Interwebz, Goings-On

This thing that I edited is in an actual printed magazine. You probably don’t have a subscription to the Harvard Business Review so you can’t read the whole thing, but you can trust me: it’s really good, and packed to the very brim with correctly-deployed semicolons.

(via ma.tt)

I even snuck in an em-dash; so there.

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Effed-Up Shit, Goings-On, Jesus H. Christ

New York: The City That Never Shuts the Hell Up

I travel a lot. I get stared at a lot because I am tall, and, oh yeah, fat. I’ve been stared at in a variety of foreign countries on several different continents.

Once, in Vietnam, I attracted an entire class of high school students who lined up to have their photos taken with me one at a time.

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Goings-On

He was an unrecognized genius.

It’s the shortest day of the year! Which is awesome, because that means tomorrow is NOT the shortest day of the year, and eventually it will begin staying light past two in the afternoon.

As my father would have said, “We’re going into the gravy!” Which on one hand makes little to no sense, but on the other is immediately understood by everyone. It’s like a Zen anti-koan. (Also, who doesn’t like gravy?) Genius.

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Goings-On, My Life Is So HAAARD

The Great White North

I realize there’s been a lack of curmudgeonliness emanating from this corner of the internet. it’s because I’ve been in Montreal since late June, pretending to be Canadian, and enjoying jazz and their ability to perfectly cook a duck breast.

I took some pictures. They’re over here. You can look if you want.

(I’m back in the States now, and find that my natural curmudgeonly state has reasserted itself undiminished.)

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Effed-Up Shit, Goings-On

Your Free Trip to SxSW Starts Now!

If you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you’re not at South By Southwest and you didn’t get to see Quentin Tarantino sitting alone, writing in his journal at the Omni Hotel bar*, let me see if I can’t give you a feel for what it’s like.

In the exhibition hall, a few booths down from my employer’s booth, there is a booth for company called Yam Trader. Their sign attempts to convince you that “everybody’s jumping on the yamwagon!” In order to entice you to hop on said yamwagon, they’ve spent two entire days erecting and painting a 20-foot-tall styrofoam yam.

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