AdamSmith

Ditto to JKane & MsGuy. Nowadays both my laptop (Win8 [oh the horror] and FireFox) and iPHone stay signed in all the time. Hallelujah!

That seems like enough! Although I love 'em, and envy your situation. I read somewhere that when Queen Elizabeth thinks she needs to take off a few pounds, she puts herself on a grapefruit diet.

My turkey day meal is the traditional fare, with one twist -- for cranberry sauce, try it uncooked. 1 bag (12 ounces) whole fresh cranberries 1 orange 1 cup sugar Quarter the orange, removing any seeds. Leave the rind on -- do not peel. Combine all ingredients in food processor and chop fine. Transfer to glass or ceramic serving bowl, cover and let stand 24 hours before serving. Refrigerate after that; will keep for 2 weeks. Leftovers can be combined with mayonnaise and used as a dressing for leftover turkey sandwiches.

I had best let MsGuy be the judge of that. Not that I could stop him.

Glad the Perelman hit the spot. Much more of him at the linked site. Let me try to exit on a grace note... The poem must resist the intelligence Almost successfully. -- Stevens

In fact McDonalds coffee may be the best thing on the menu. I like it a lot. On the other hand the popularity of Dunkin Donuts coffee, at least in some regions, remains one of life's mysteries.

Forgive me...

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/comedy/comedy-reviews/10454026/Eat-Pray-Laugh-London-Palladium-review.html http://m.newyorker.com/online/blogs/culture/2012/03/farewell-dame-edna.html

Works for me.

OK! Conceding defeat. This by way of apology, and to help rinse out the taste of frogs' legs... IS THERE AN OSTEOSYNCHRONDROITRICIAN IN THE HOUSE? S.J. PerelmanLooking back at it now, I see that every afternoon at 4:30 for the past five months I had fallen into an exact routine. First off, I'd tap the dottle from my pipe by knocking it against the hob. I never smoke a pipe, but I like to keep one with a little dottle in it, and an inexpensive hob to tap it against; when you're in the writing game, there are these little accessories you need. Then I'd slip off my worn old green smoking jacket, which I loathe, and start down Lexington Avenue for home. Sometimes, finding myself in my shirtsleeves, I would have to return to my atelier for my jacket and over- coat, but as I say, when you're in the writing game, it's strictly head-in-the-clouds. Now, Lexington Avenue is Lexington Avenue—when you've once seen Blooming- dale's and the Wil-Low Cafeteria, you don't go nostalgic all over as you might for the Avenue de l'Observatoire and the Closerie des Lilas. Anyway, I'd be head down and scudding along under bare poles by the time I reached the block between Fifty-eighth and Fifty-seventh Streets, and my glance into those three shop windows would be purely automatic. First, the highly varnished Schnecken in the bakery; then the bones of a human foot shimmying slowly on a near- mahogany pedestal in the shoestore; and finally the clock set in the heel of a congress gaiter at the bootblack's. By now my shabby old reflexes would tell me it was time to buy an evening paper and bury my head in it. A little whim of my wife's; she liked to dig it up, as a puppy does a bone, while I was sipping my cocktail. Later on I taught her to frisk with a ball of yarn, but to get back to what happened Washington's Birthday. I was hurrying homeward that holiday afternoon pretty much in the groove, humming an aria from "Till Tom Special" and wishing I could play the clarinet like a man named Goodman. Just as it occurred to me that I might drug this individual and torture his secret out of him, I came abreast the window of the shoestore contain- ing the bones of the human foot. My mouth suddenly de- veloped that curious dry feeling when I saw that they were vibrating, as usual, from north to south, every little meta- tarsal working with the blandest contempt for all I hold dear. I pressed my ear against the window and heard the faint clicking of the motor housed in the box beneath. A little scratch here and there on the shellac surface showed where one of the more enterprising toes had tried to do a solo but had quickly rejoined the band. Not only was the entire arch rolling forward and backward in an oily fashion, but it had evolved an obscene side sway at the same time, a good deal like the danse a ventre. Maybe the foot had belonged to an Ouled-Nail girl, but I felt I didn't care to find out. I was aware immediately of an active de- sire to rush home and lie down attended by my loved ones. The only trouble was that when I started to leave the place, I could feel my arches acting according to all the proper orthopedic laws, and I swear people turned to look at me as if they heard a clicking sound. The full deviltry of the thing only became apparent as I lay on my couch a bit later, a vinegar poultice on my forehead, drinking a cup of steaming tea. That little bevy of bones had been oscillating back and forth all through Danzig, Pearl Harbor, and the North African campaign; this very minute it was undulating turgidly, heedless of the fact the store had been closed two hours. Furthermore, if its progress were not impeded by the two wires snaffled to the toes (I'll give you that thought to thrash around with some sleepless night), it might by now have en- circled the world five times, with a stopover at the Eucharistic Congress. For a moment the implications were so shocking that I started up alarmed. But since my loved ones had gone off to the movies and there was no- body to impress, I turned over and slept like a top, with no assistance except three and a half grains of barbital. I could have reached my workshop the next morning by walking up Third Avenue, taking a cab up Lexington, or even crawling on my hands and knees past the shoe- store to avoid that indecent window display, but my feet won their unequal struggle with my brain and carried me straight to the spot. Staring hypnotized at the macabre shuffle (halfway between a rhumba and a soft-shoe step), I realized that I was receiving a sign from above to take the matter in hand. I spent the morning shopping lower Third Avenue, and at noon, dressed as an attache of the Department of Sanitation, began to lounge noncha- lantly before the store. My broom was getting nearer and nearer the window when the manager came out noise- lessly. My ducks must have been too snowy, for he gave one of his clerks a signal and a moment later a police- man turned the corner. Fortunately, I had hidden my civvies in the lobby of Proctor's Fifty-eighth Street Thea- tre, and by the time the breathless policeman rushed in, I had approached the wicket as cool as a cucumber, asked for two cucumbers in the balcony, and signed my name for Bank Nite. I flatter myself that I brought off the affair rather well. My second attempt, however, was as fruitless as the first. I padded my stomach with a pillow, grayed my hair at the temples, and entered the shop fiercely. Pointing to the white piping on my vest, I represented myself as a portly banker from Portland, Maine, and asked the man- ager what he would take for the assets and good will, spot cash. I was about to make him a firm offer when I found myself being escorted out across the sidewalk, the man- ager's foot serving as fulcrum. And there, precisely, the matter rests. I have given plenty of thought to the problem, and there is only one solution. Are there three young men in this city, with stout hearts and no dependents, who know what I mean? We can clean out that window with two well-directed grenades and get away over the rooftops. Given half a break, we'll stop that grisly pas seul ten seconds after we pull out the pins with our teeth. If we're caught, there's always the cyanide in our belts. First meeting tonight at nine in front of the Railroad Men's Y.M.C.A., and wear a blue cornflower. http://archive.org/stream/bestofsjperelma00pere/bestofsjperelma00pere_djvu.txt

Hah! I was married to one of those for a long time. He was Catholic, but same principle.

Frugal with her own money. But as for gentlemen callers, now...

Nobody gets any credit around here. Haven't you noticed? Cash only.

...did I say anything?

I defer to your extended consideration of the matter. As for Debord, however... Put it this way, as far as reflexive rejection of anything that displays too much Continental stylistic foppery -- is it that far from sanguine acceptance of something because it reads like John Dewey?