A sure indication that your idea has a touch of genius is this: it makes other people slap hand~to~forehead and exclaim, but of course!! I wish *I'd* thought of that...
This one made me do that. And my first thought was:
Brilliant! I've always had a thing for men's shirts... and now I have a use for them.
My second thought was:
On the other hand, that's a pretty psychologically incriminating thing to find in somebody's bed. Oh that? That's my headless, sexless, inanimate boyfriend~substitute. Shake hands with Mr. Canoodle.
My third thought was:
While the idea of a man's torso lying in my bed is a bit creepy, for some reason I have no problem with the idea of having a row of them along my couch.
{Well, you know, there are pillows you want to take to bed with you, and then there are pillows you just like as friends.}
I'd be very tempted to sew little fabric canapes and martini glasses for them to hold during parties. And then I could spend all night telling them how simply fabulous they are.
And I'll leave you with this last thought:
If I were in the sex toy business, I would definitely swoop down on this idea. Imagine, a matching gift set of pillow and phallus ~ I'd call it "Dick & Dickie" and bill it as "The Kit That Cuddles You Afterwards." :}
Maybe around the Christmas season I'd throw in a couple Feng Shui candles and call it "Sensitive New Age Guy"...
.
... I wonder if one has the choice of a righty or lefty? Or, for people like me, who keep switching sides of the bed, both?
Sweet...? I've heard of sugar being found in the pyramids... but in the middle of our galaxy?!? If that's the cup, I'd hate to see the spoon.
Ironic...? Contrary to popular folklore, it turns out that spinach isn't really a great source of iron {misplaced decimal point, don'cha know}... It may, however, turn out to make a kickass solar energy cell.
Bringing new meaning to "buying a round".
And having a shot. And shot glasses. And shooters. And, while we're at it, everything from an Adios Motherfucker to a Zhivago's Revenge.
In honour of this event, somebody ought to invent a shooter called an AK-47*. Yeah, somebody with the stomach to experiment with 82% proof alcohol, which would be somebody other than me.
~ ~ ~
* ...to be sold right next to the B-52's.
What does my consciousness rest upon? It's words, all the way down...
A few days ago, the word was Terrapin. You know, Terrapin. Like the submarine. Or the war. Or The Great A'Tuin.
I didn't even know that I knew the word Terrapin before I woke up that morning...
Reminds me of Thomas King's collection of essays, The Truth About Stories. Each section begins with the retelling of the same story ~ the details are always different, but the punchline remains the same. It's the story about whether or not the world sits on the back of the turtle. The question comes up, but what is that turtle standing on? And the answer is, another turtle.
And that turtle?
Another turtle.
The story usually ends with something like, look, I know where you're trying to go with this ~ but it's turtles all the way down.
Sometimes, it's elephants instead of turtles, but the idea is the same.
If, and that's IF it is to be believed... then FINALLY ~ Klingon language radio!
Can you imagine a Klingon Public Service Announcement? Or a Klingon call~in show? This is WKLI. Hello, caller, you're on the air! How do you keep your weapons in prime condition?
Hey, it would be a good way to familiarize yourself with the culture if you're planning a visit...
For ages, our little techno~park had no cafés, no dépanneurs, no tabagies of any kind; it was a wasteland of rentable office space.
We still have no dépanneurs or tabagies; but some bright young entrepreneur finally wised up to our basic needs, and now there is one small café.
And it was thanks to the café that I discovered, hidden deep in the heart of our techno~park:
The Trailer Park That Time Forgot.
So, here we are, then.
It's one of those rare mornings when we we're all locked out of the office because no key~holding employee has yet arrived. It's usually on just such a morning that I'm running so late I grab a cab and show up just in time to wait another hour. As I have just done.
It's a dark grey morning, air so humid you could wring it out; and there's a far away electrical storm, I can see lightning in the distance... like you might see on the Serengeti if, instead of acacia woodland savanna and migrating ungulates, it was covered in low~lying office buildings and herds of night~shift employees waiting for the next bus.
It's gonna rain, and I figure if I'm gonna be caught outside in the rain, it might as well be for a good cause.
It's on my way back from the café that the rain starts.
It's time for a short~cut; so, hunched over my coffee to keep it dry, I walk between buildings.
And if it hadn't've been for a lightning flash making me glance up, I swear I'd've missed it.
To my right, there are the hindquarters of office buildings; to my left, there is a residential trailer park.
To either side of the trailer park are the backsides of more office buildings. Within the trailer park is an old road, cracked, crumbling & weedy; and down at the end of this road are overhanging trees obscuring the newer street with which it intersects.
At this stage in the electrical storm, there's that peculiar twilight glow in the air. And, as if that weren't already surreal enough ~~ at this moment, too, there is a big~bellied man walking a teency~weency dog in the rain. A Miniature Pinscher, I think ~ you know, the kind of dog that looks like a doberman trapped in a chihuahua's body.
The trailer park looks as if it had been built up back in the '50's as a sort of retirement haven, and, some forty years later, our techno~park has grown up around it, like a tree growing up around an old, slowly rotting stump.
It occurs to me that someday all these people will have passed on in one way or another, nobody will want to own a crummy trailer with a techno~park view, and it will be gone. More office buildings will go up in their place, and people will be left wondering why the urban planners designed this weird little gap in the street grid.
But until then, it remains a curious little oasis of the unexpected.
As in, "you contumacious mammothrept".
~~ said by erudite misopede Samuel Marchbanks {aka Robertson Davies}
"Idle bed-dwellers and sleep-loving students may be the most creative people in the country."
...and the article goes on to talk about how employers might use these findings to improve workplace productivity.
I can just see the how~to manual now...
From the people who brought you such self~improvement books as, What Colour Is Your Parachute, How To Make Friends And Influence People, Do What You Love And The Money Will Follow, Who Moved My Cheese? and The Artist's Way, we now bring you Sleeping Your Way To The Top: How to Make the Most of Your Creativity in Bed.*
~ ~ ~
* Reminds me of a fable from the advertising industry. There was, once upon a time, a publisher who wanted to issue a new paperback edition of Oliver Twist. As the story goes, the publisher didn't trust that a "classic" would be profitable; so in order to sell more copies, it was issued with a sexy cover.
The cover featured a very well~endowed woman, who, upon closer inspection, could be seen to be looming menacingly over a small boy, who, in turn, upon closer inspection, could be seen to be clutching a small empty bowl. Inconspicuously printed in small font at the top of the cover were the words "Oliver Twist"; and rather conspicuously printed in large font sprawled across the bottom of the cover were the words, "The BOY Who Wanted MORE!"
Sales were a complete flop.
Anybody whose interest was piqued by the cover was disappointed by a quick glance through the book; and anybody who might have wanted to read what the book had to offer passed it over due to its cover.
Moral? I think it's "Just be yourself."
Last week I saw a newspaper headline which reported "President is praised as a wartime leader on a par with Winston Churchill".
Hmmm....
Do they mean the Churchill who is quoted as saying, "In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies" ?
Or the Churchill who often liked to repeat Stalin's observation that "In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended to by a bodyguard of lies" ?
Or maybe the Churchill who said "Truth is so precious that she must often be attended by a bodyguard of lies," to Stalin at Teheran?
... do they even know who Churchill is ?
Seems like a kinda slippery character, this Churchill guy.
The P's, yes, the P's are back, and making up for lost time.
This morning, in my sleepy~wakey state, I dreamt I was skimming down through P~words on a dictionary page. My eyes came to rest on the word Putte, and that's when I awoke.
I was afraid it might turn out to be something very rude, and then I'd've felt obliged to censor myself & not blog about it; fortunately, it wasn't... strictly speaking... a rude word... it was only a peculiar one... which... sounds a lot like... um, a few other words that are rude...
{... oh, fine; okay, alright, I admit it: lately I've been feeling like I'm a poxy old doxy...}
And then I fell back to sleep & dreamt I read the phrase, Pasc{h}al sleeping blunder.
{Don't know what that has to do with being a poxy old doxy, unless it's referring to doxy in another sense.}
Y'know, I keep expecting these dreams to make some poetic sort of sense... after all, they seem so utterly dense with sense... but the penny hasn't dropped yet...