From the unmatchable Jesus’ General.
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Technorati me!
Just what it says, 10ZenMonkeys‘ list of the very worst video blogs of the year, which I think I stole from BoingBoing but I don’t remember because hey, it’s the holidays and I’m wasted on strong tea and cold medicine.
I’d have left Ze Frank off the list(see comments below), because I’m a big mean nasty snarker myself and I support and appreciate that, but to each his/her own. On some of these, we are as of one mind. I know Border Collies with four or five times the qualifications of Amanda Congdon. But the Dogs Barking in Cars vlog is amusing, although one example would more than suffice, ya’d think.
Amanda Congdon’s new show is the equivalent of deciding that Lite Beer isn’t bland enough, and asking for a LITE lite beer. Is it unfair to compare Amanda Congdon’s new video blog to footage of dogs barking in cars? No — because I hate it that much.
See below: this one is FIVE times as qualified as she is!
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Just like James Brown, Buckwheat, my job prospects at Gawker, and the hopes and dreams of my generation.
Gerald Ford, people, is still dead. The Seventies are truly over.
What’s the latest scoop on the Dead President front? Perhaps, like Toby Crooke, wicked sexton of the charming town of Golden Friars, his body will lie in state for a time, after which it will be stolen away by a mysterious, swashbuckling foreigner on the back of a huge, black horse. Perhaps, maybe even probably, but after that?
Let’s ask Hunter S. Thompson, who knew the man. From his obituary of Richard Milhous Nixon:
Not even Gerald Ford, the unhappy ex-president who pardoned Nixon and kept him out of prison, was immune to the evil fallout. Ford, who believes strongly in Heaven and Hell, has told more than one of his celebrity golf partners that “I know I will go to hell, because I pardoned Richard Nixon…”
Let us not pretend we didn’t see the end coming. We always knew Ford‘s death would be heralded by strange portents (thanks to Miss Cellania for portent-link) and wreathed in paradox and mystery.
The paradox and mystery, from Former Frontier Editor:
Gerald R. Ford, 93, Dies; Led in Watergate’s Wake
By J.Y. Smith and Lou Cannon
Special to The Washington Post
Wednesday, December 27, 2006; 10:18 AM
Gerald Rudolph Ford Jr., 93, who became the 38th president of the United States as a result of some of the most extraordinary events in U.S. history and sought to restore the nation’s confidence in the basic institutions of government, has died. His wife, Betty, reported the death in a statement last night.
“My family joins me in sharing the difficult news that Gerald Ford, our beloved husband, father, grandfather and great grandfather has passed away at 93 years of age,” Betty Ford said in a brief statement issued from her husband’s office in Rancho Mirage, Calif. “His life was filled with love of God, his family and his country.”
Ford died at 6:45 p.m. Tuesday (PST) at his home in Rancho Mirage, about 130 miles east of Los Angeles, his office said. No cause of death was given. Ford had battled pneumonia in January and underwent two heart treatments — including an angioplasty — in August at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester…
J.Y. Smith, a former obituary editor of The Washington Post, died in January.
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Technorati me!
Stole this from Archie’s Archive. He’s just a libertine; check THIS out, baby!
and me still single…imagine!
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Technorati me!
For all those writers, publishers, editors, bloggers, and journalists out there. Forget the office party and come drink with The Shebeen Club tomorrow night at the Irish Heather!
We’ll be upstairs in the Reading Room this time, at the Irish Heather in Gastown, 217 Carrall Street in Gastown, from 7-9pm. No cover, order off the menu and enjoy the best damn gastropub in the West!
Twas the day before Tuesday, when all through downtown
The email went out inviting Shebeeners down
To the Heather on Tuesday the 19th: tomoz!
For a drink and a nosh and tales of Santa Claus.
We’ll have a fun evening, no lectures to hear,
From seven ’til nine, just a-drinking our beer!
With Lorraine with Grinch earrings and a Santa hat,
You can come as you are, or all dressed up in spats.
And down in the kitchen arises a bashing
The chef is meat grilling and potato mashing.
Order straight off the menu and pay what you nosh
Tear into the butter, and the whiskies quite posh.
“Now Writers! Now Students!
Now, Publishers many!
Come, Poets! Come, Bloggers!
Come, Booksellers, merry!
To the Reading Room of the Heather
At the top of the stairs!
Now party on! Party on!
Don’t put on airs!
We’ll read Chrismas stories, and tell our tall tales
So drop in for a bevvy; I’ll tell about the old jail.
The Heather was lockup in decades gone by
So come down, serve your time drinking Guinness and rye.
raincoaster 