My sister Susan lives in a nice subdivision in Boulder, Colo., and she reports that several of the many dozens of trick-or-treaters who showed up were talking on their cell phones as they held out their bag for candy. (Yes, she demanded they get off the phone and say the words, "Trick or treat.")
From zero to misty
It's beautiful in Chicago lately, and so I rode my motorcycle to see Where the Wild Things Are; my wife and kid took the car.
Cristie reported that Scout cried all the way home in the car.
Which would have alarmed me, I guess, had I not cried all the way home on the motorcycle.
The next stage in my “friend the famous” Facebook strategy
A colleague once said of another colleague, "He bases his status on the prominence of the people he doesn't call back."
Well, fuck it: I'm un-friending Armstrong Williams, one of the big-name journalists with whom I connected on a recent friending frenzy.
Why am I cutting Williams loose, when doing so undercuts my social media strategy of friending winners and peeping at the influential?
Not for his right-wingedness, nor his corruption—after all, I count G. Gordon Liddy as one of my dearest Facebook frenemies—but for his cliché mongering, as evidenced by this idiotic plume of platitudes he posted the day after the Fort Hood shootings last week.
Republicans and criminals, we can tolerate here at Writing Boots. Cant, we can't.