The Pool of London,
Peter Cornelis Dommersen,
oil on canvas, 1861.
I've been a bad blog friend for not posting and I'm sorry. My energy output has not exceeded the wattage of a glowworm. Frustrating--because I've never knuckled under to stuff before.
Written and Fairy, thank you.
Clutching my remote in my blue recliner, I've overdosed on cable television in the past weeks and have some observations:
My opinion of that Bin Laden clone nutjob cleric in Florida who planned to burn the Qur'an is not printable.
Benjamin Netanyahu, the Israeli PM, has a gorgeous voice.
Deana Troy and Seven of Nine from TNG and Voyager have the best figures on TV.
Reruns of M*A*S*H are hilarious.
Terms in the news like "landfall", "riptide" and "wildfire" have been used as book titles.
Operation Repo is an exhibition of hysterical vulgarity-- not from the tattooed reposession crew--but from the people whose cars are being reposessed.
Mantracker, from a show by that name, uses the same bad words as I do.
Commericals which rely on expanding and contracting graphics are so much visual noise.
And the single kiss between Lancelot (Richard Gere?) and Guinevere in First Knight is the most hungry, passionate movie kiss I've ever seen.