stay-inside day

The weather today is superlatively nasty - not snow, which is fluffy and nice, but raining ice and 30 mph gusts of wind. I have decided that it is a day for enjoying air-tight home construction. Dick, however, wins the award for most-hard southern transplant, as he has left to brave broken subway trains and a foot of icy snow on the ground to cover a faux Boston Tea Party (i.e., no actual tea thrown in the harbor) put on by supporters of Ron Paul for his blogging gig. Before the gross weather showed up I was going to join him, but instead I'm sitting in the couch under a warm blanket, eating delicious vegetarian chili, and watching season 1 of "Buffy."

Speaking of Ron Paul, is it just me or is his anthem the catchiest jangle pop I've heard in ages? Just wait for the organ and 'la-la-la's about three quarters of the way through.

it's the little things that bring me happiness

Specifically, the little things with very large ears. In this case, the long-eared jerboa.

where have all the drunks gone?

You would think in a town known for its Irish heritage, cold weather, and general orneriness of people, it would be hard to find a body not devoted to sweet delicious alcohol. And yet Dick and I find ourselves encountering a distressing number of teetotalers. Not that there's anything wrong with being dry, it's just that Dick and I have worked hard to cultivate a sophisticated drinking practice, and we like to exercise it regularly. Last night we found ourselves at a birthday party devoid of both alcohol and animal products. It was nice, and I had one of the best Hostess-style cupcakes I've tasted, and it was vegan. There were also kick ass ginger cookies, made with grated fresh ginger. What is it with vegans being such good bakers, anyway? It's uncanny.

Back to the subject of drinking, I saw this book at a store the other day, and immediately wanted to buy one for all the great drinkers in my life. It's a republishing of a book originally written in, I believe, the 1930's by a Scotsman who used the pseudonym Aeneas MacDonald "in deference to his mother."

holy fuck it is cold

I'm glad to be working in the heated buildings of Underfunded Public Art School, because it is motherfucking cold outside. I thought I was tougher than this - I mean, I remember back in college walking around when it was -10 degrees F, and it's only, like, 15 degrees now. Today has proven that my current glove arsenal is insufficient to keep my Raynaud's-afflicted hands from getting painfully cold. I have a plan, however, for a secret weapon of cold-fighting warmth: felted wool mittens with a cotton flannel lining or fleece sewn in. It will be a few weeks at least before I have time for things like knitting, but I may shift this project to the top of the craftiness to-do list.

In other news, I'm writing a paper on Cory Arcangel,who made this, which is actually playable in its original form:

"I shot Andy Warhol"