…fine. You win.
I’m making Resolution Number One right the hell now: January will be known as Roughage Month, both in spirit and deed.
Eddie Izzard Explains Why England Is A Nation Of Mutts
Just continuing the Eddie Izzard: this is the first of fifteen parts, and each is worth it.
So, we’re staying in this hotel in Solvang, a really nice place with feather beds and polite staff and excellent food. It also has classical music playing the halls, which wouldn’t be that bad, except there’s this one piece that I only know from The Blues Brothers. You know what I’m talking about: the scene where Jake and Elwood show up at Mr. Fabulous’s restaurant and proceed to rude him into rejoining the band. There’s that pretty lilting of strings as Elwood tosses shrimp tails into Jake’s mouth, that light plucking as Jake slaps some Chicago swell on the back and brays, “How much for you women, your daughters? Sell me your children!”
Truly, this is a classy joint.
Less thinking, more doing.
Less feeling, more thinking.
Less driving, more cycling.
Less nitrogen, more carbon.
Less sloth, more mobility.
Less jam, more kicking out.
Less wasabi, more ponzu.
Less organic, more pastured.
Less talking, more listening.
Less tv, more writing.
Yes, we saw Borat. Yes, it is that funny. Yes, we’re all going to hell.
That was what my old history teacher, Coach Thornburgh, used to say on parent-teacher night. I now think that every time I look at MySpace.