Finally. Now I can quit sleeping and go back to wake.
China has released its list of restricted items for this summer’s Olympic venues: guns, ammunition, crossbows, daggers, fireworks, flammable materials, corrosive chemicals and radioactive materials, musical instruments, oversized carry-on bags, suitcases, handbags, flags of countries and regions not participating either in the Olympics or Paralympics, flags more than two meters in length or one meter in height, banners, leaflets, posters and unauthorized professional videotaping equipment, knives, bats, long-handled umbrellas, long poles, animals (except for guide dogs), vehicles (except for strollers and wheelchairs), loudspeakers, radios, laser devices or wireless devices.
The list is a bit of a poem, with vague items (handbags?) ricocheting off the specific (flags more than two meters in length or one meter in height); and then a dose of full, identical, other rhyme (bags/flags, devices and devices). I adore the banning of radios. Calling all people who lug around radios! What’s next, a ban on telephone booth stuffing?
Well, literary aspirations of the list aside, I was on the barbed wire about attending. But no crossbows? No and way. I’ll spend the cash on a Kate Christensen novel. Jesting, jesting…I spleen her two books I’ve actually read. I’ll spend the cash on a beige comforter for the bedroom, a bowstring, or a wicked Star Stingray.
SUMMER JMWW HAS ARRIVED!!! http://jmww.150m.com/
I thought this was teakettle good (only an excerpt here):
Salinka Mura and the Typewriter
by Charles Talkoff
Arthur was a typewriter and at first life was difficult and on account of all the media attention it was more difficult still and people came to stare and others to make fun but eventually that all faded and Arthur lived a normal life for a typewriter and his parents loved him up to a point beyond which they were tormented by guilt and conflicting feelings of remorse and fear and blame and endless recriminations and Arthur’s father built a mechanism for feeding paper into Arthur so he didn’t go without except once when they forgot and he was miserable and started typing but only beat against his platen and bruised himself
FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME PLEASE FEED ME
I tried to eat the most pretentious dinner possible tonight, just for this blog. First, I thought: sea turtle eggs. Then cacti spears with some regional relish. Then maybe some animal I raise today then kill then butcher then eat. But the logistics were hellish. I settled on a literary meal, served to James Bond in Ian Fleming’s (the Svengali of the adverb) Goldfinger–an entire fish flash-fried, sliced open with a stilleto, and still flopping on the plate as you eat its eyeballs.
I thought this photo would be more dramatic. And I took only one. Even borrowed my mom’s camera. Oh whales.
Off to Kentucky.