Amoeblog

(On the advent of Halloween.)

Posted by Job O Brother, October 24, 2011 02:16pm | Post a Comment



halloween
Worst... lollipops... ever.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! It’s almost time for Halloween! And you know what that means? Stressing out about costumes, making the Sophie’s Choice over which parties to attend (basically an exercise in letting your friends know who you like most) and experiencing undue suspicion of apples. (Is an apple stuck with hidden pins healthier if it’s organic? And do child-killers have a preference between Braeburns or a Cox’s Orange Pippin?)

red apples

Halloween: the scary holiday. You know what’s scary? How my body can turn two, tiny Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups into a week’s worth of adult acne.

If it sounds like I’m anti-Halloween, know that I’m not. It’s just that, unlike Walrus Day, this holiday bears with it certain responsibilities, just like all the other more pious celebrations. Granted, one usually isn’t pressured to hang out with family members on Halloween (I actually like my family, but a lot of people have to settle for loving theirs), and no-one’s expected to cook lavish feasts (unless you count opening a fun-size Snickers “cooking”), but you are expected to have a lot of fun. This presents someone like me with real challenges.

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Happy Birthday James Joyce

Posted by Whitmore, February 2, 2010 05:36pm | Post a Comment
... as for the following blog, what can I say, perhaps an apology for my nod to Finnegan, but what the hell, “A man's errors are his portals of discovery.” – James Joyce.
 
2 February 1882, sprowled future of his fates yawled, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce, becaught the fornicreators John Stanislaus Joyce and Mary Jane Murray. Elderest of ten progeny; though two sibships swerved absent from life, bowed by typhoid, James by a commodius viscous of recirculation back past, found his chance out of Rathgar and Clane o’ County Kildare. Re-sur, inventilated, as Stephen Hero violer d'amores, fr'over tracted rails, passen hub rearrived as a Young Dubliner, there to truduce a shining star and body! O’ Fate fanespanned most high heaven, the skysign of soft destiny to the lashstroung side of Nora Barnacle, re-nee Molly Bloom. Thus the unfacts, he did possess, too imprecisely, yes, a few retaletolds to idendifine the individuone, his sly slopperish matter of history. But within time, the facts chase towards the east in quest, past the scraggy isthmus to Europe Minor Himalayousness to his penisolate war in the heights of topsawyer's rocks, Zürich, where the Hero writ the poemsies, writ Ulysses. Arms nixed with larms James Joycedangling, appalling Killykill toll, a toll. The camibalistics fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner), clashes cease and none so soon, never too soon the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown. Soon Joyce’s secular phoenish and arc flight settled in the centre-ville de Paris, la Ville-Lumière. Here nouvel wordsies flocked to the papyrush, swiftease on the leftlet banks drawn to the age. Oftwhile balbulous eyes, poorly in life since a youth spent in Baile Átha Cliath, attempts goodly cheirurgery neuflike times, but success – a minutias worth, so addle liddle a pawn, suchess.
 
Somethemores Vita animas wakes, comes to Leopold Bloom, Molly Bloom and Stephen Dedalus and Malachi Buck Mulligan, Finnegan, Paddy Dignam and so many more dreamydeary pholks, brings pocketbarely of farthingscads trinkets by way of green clapboard Shakespeare & Cie. Came Exiles, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Pomes Penyeach, Finnegans Wake, breathed and bred in the century loinings of wordscrafts, the broadest way immarginable.
 
Then, onset of the new nonanon camibalist, offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Joyce. Never a solid man, he spent retaled days in linens and in leaps of mind in alltitude and malltitude. Auld age not, but Stercoral perforation did, sent him on exodus alone. Joyce relapsed brought about by tragoady and indespite transfusions, slipslid into a cataleptic dreamsy. In grey grays, he lifted away at 2:15 AM on 13 January 1941, blackguardise the whitestone hurtleturtled out of heaven to resclaim his soul. As oaks of old now lie in peat, elms leap where ashes churn, he rests in Fluntern Cemetery within a rroarslieds of the Zürich Zoo. A skyerscape of the most eyeful entowerly was James Joyce. Whish! Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Again! Take. Mememormee! Till thousandsthee. The keys to. Given. A way a lone a last a loved a long the