Jon Swift Memorial Roundup 2011

Batocchio at Vagabond Scholar has posted this year’s John Swift Memorial Roundup of “The Best Posts of the Year, Chosen by the Bloggers Themselves”.

On the Balloon Juice front, it includes a frippery from yours truly, and characteristically fine posts from Kay and Tom Levenson and from a number of BJ favorites, such as TBogg’s “Bristol Palin’s Airing of Grievances” (which crams more spite into 400 words than I had thought possible) and Driftglass’ tragic fuckeulogy (TM – The Bugle) for David Broder.

More importantly, there are dozens of posts from bloggers great and small and new and old (and quite often sweary) which will have your bookmarking finger working overtime.

I particularly liked “Scenes from the first week of school” from A Blog about School, Stonekettle Station’s “Everybody’s So Different, I Haven’t Changed“, “On Inoculation” by nothstine at p3, and the quite lovely “This one is for my dad” from Mock, Paper, Scissors.

I’m also a little annoyed that no one ever told me about Zaius Nation or Chimpanzee Tea Party.

All linked over at Vagabond Scholar.

Blog Love

Edwin Lord Weeks (1849-1903) - Elephants at the Palace of Jodhpore

I’m not sure why, but I’m in the mood to spread some blog love this morning. Perhaps it’s because I have been reading other people’s blogs to distract me from the arduous work of writing my own. I’m three martinis down, I have a story marinating in my brain – it should be prime writing time, but whenever I stare at that blank page on the computer screen, I give up in disgust and then search around for something else to read.

Anyway, my old friend Lance Mannion is in the middle of a series of posts about his visit to Occupy Wall Street and the dangerous revolutionaries poets and ironworkers and clergy he met there.

My favorite of the signs I saw yesterday wasn’t a protest, it was a joyful boast: Proud Union Mama.

My least favorite said: Even God Hates Wall Street.


God, if He, She, or It exists, not having the time, He, She, or It doesn’t take sides like that. Besides, God hating anyone’s particular enemies? That’s how they think.

But we know how Jesus felt about the moneychangers, and storing up treasure on earth, and rich people and needles’ eyes, and the poor and the downtrodden. We know what he said to the rich young man who wanted to know what he had to do to be saved and he’d say the same to any young hedge fund manager who asked that question today. We know the kind of company he preferred to keep. All the apostles except Matthew, the tax collector, and the other guy, the politician, were working men. If Jesus came today and said to them, Follow me, he’d be talking to Union men and women.

I am a great fan of Anita Dalton at I Read Odd Books. This is, in part, due to my admiration of her mettle in managing to get through books I would never even pick up, books that would have had me heading outside with a bottle of lighter fluid to dispatch the hated tome from this earth with fire and vengeance. She’s also charming and funny, whether skewering the deserving:

Availability: Published by Melville Press in 2009, I highly advise that you not buy a copy, but rather shoplift a copy. If you get caught and arrested, take your mugshot, superimpose it over a picture of your ass, and mail it to Lin. He will then fashion all of the be-assed mug shots into some sort of self-aggrandizing but ultimately morally and socially empty project and thus the circle will be unbroken.

or providing a very lengthy but fascinating analysis of mass murderer Anders Behring Breivik’s anti-muslim screed 2083: A European Declaration of Independence.

Over at Juanita Jean’s The World’s Most Dangerous Beauty Salon, Inc., Ms Juanita Jean (widowed), via her amanuensis Susan DuQuesnay Bankston, dispenses a fine mix of well crafted disdain and one liners that can make vodka come out your nose. Ladies, I salute you.

And then there’s that goofy looking son of a motherless goat Phil Gramm, who could not buy a date at the chicken ranch with a chicken under each arm and a $20 bill taped to his forehead.

While I’m scattering links, I might as well get in a plug for the paper folding works of Dinh Truong Giang. Simply stunning.

Gorilla - 2010 - Dinh Truong Giang

Finally, that sweet AsiangrrlMN is in love, and it’s quite adorable.

Maybe it’s time to go and stare at cake recipes for a while. Then it will be time for lunch and a nap.

Anything to avoid the horror of actually writing something myself.

Levenson-like Pretentious Art Douche stuff: Edwin Lord Weeks (1849-1903) – Elephants at the Palace of Jodhpore via Art Renewal Centre.

A post which contains various pieces of useful information, a welcome, an expression of gratitude and a brief but cruel reference to both Ronald Reagan and Ann Coulter

This picture has no relvance to this post other than that looking at it makes Grammy happy inside

I breakfast quite late here at Shady Pines. My body clock is quite messed up from the Aripiprazole and Rivastigmine cocktail I’m supposed to take each morning with my first gimlet of the day and, besides that, if you arrive too early at the dining room you have to deal with the visual of 45 octo-nono-generians putting in their teeth and re-settling their colostomy bags while they chatter about Andre Rieu.

As such, I didn’t sit down to this morning’s fresh beluga, feta and egg-white omelette until at least midday. Marge Albrechtson was ranting about finding a squirrel in her laundry basket this morning. She usually keeps them in her chest of drawers, so she was most upset. After I had calmed her down with a swift finger-punch to the gut, I called up my blog statistics on my iPad 2 and noticed two or three new readers trickling in from something called the Daily Beast.

At first I thought that I’d cracked the satanist demographic, but after a little digging I worked out that that nice Andrew Sullivan had linked to my little blog.

Welcome to you all. We’re a little full up, what with the Daily Kos people sleeping on blow up beds in my lounge room and the Balloon-Juice people camped out in the Games Room (whist on Tuesdays, cribbage on Wednesdays and Fridays and polo on every second Thursday afternoon), so some of you are going to have to bunk in with Marge. Don’t worry – her bed has both a waterproof sheet and arm restraints, so you should be safe enough.

A few safety tips:

* Watch out for any baked goods which don’t have a little green flag stuck in them. I cannot emphasize this more strenuously. Ann Coulter took a slice of tryptamine-laced Battenberg cake out of the fridge the other day even though it was clearly marked with a RED flag, and spent 48 hours babbling away like Ronald Reagan – “The twilight years”. In other words, we could barely notice the difference, but YMMV.

* Don’t get between Marge and any member of the order Rodentia, or between me and any ethanol based liquid.

* Finally, don’t touch my medication drawer or I’ll cut you.

I’d like to say a thankyou to Andrew for his kind words, because I’m a nice (if wicked) and well-bred old lady. Grammy likes words like “mordantly funny“, “hilarious” and “inspired” almost as much as she likes the words “massage“, “2-for-one sale at Prada bespoke“, and “3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine“.

By the by, I also agree with Jasper Fforde that “shevelled” and “gruntled” are both sadly neglected words, and use them at every opportunity. Get used to it.

Just two little quibbles with Andrew’s post – I’m not so much Dada as gaga (I refer to the slang term for senility, not the skinny bint in the dress made of cheese and dog vomit), and anyone who suggests I am an “alleged” 92-year old grandma is asking to feel the back of my hand.

Anyhow, thank you Andrew. I take back all of the nasty things I have ever said about you, except the quips in this article here, because it’s really more nasty to Megan McArdle than anything else and frankly I think its pretty funny.

From tomorrow, however, all bets are off, beardy.

Moving on. I was most amused to read the chat thread on the Reddit mention of my recent Trump post where some very silly people were trying to argue that Donald’s Mexican birth certificate was a fake on such spurious grounds as that it was issued by the long-dead and little-missed Emperor of Mexico.

Pedants. I’m a Republican, Catholic woman – would I lie about anything?

Finally, the pace of writing and posting and clicking those fucking Facebook notifications over the last couple of days has been frenetic and has worn me out a little, plus I do need to maintain my active social life, so I’m going to go on a little visit to New York to see Gloria V. for Easter. We’re going to go and see “Atlas Shrugged” and throw Medicare-subsidized cancer medication at the screen. We may even cram in a little visit to a strip club with dear old Barbie Bush.

As such, posting may be a little sporadic over the next few days, unless Grammy gets hepped up on crystal and wants to rant a little bit.

Regardless, I hope you will check back in soon. I have a nice little story about Ronnie Reagan in the pipeline, and have promised dear AsiangrrlMN that I’ll post it as soon as my head clears. I’m also having memory-flashes of Fidel Castro in a bathing suit brandishing an egg whisk, which is odd because while I do remember him smelling a bit like a sheep when he had his shirt off, I don’t recall an egg whisk ever coming into the proceedings. Anyway, there could be a story in that too.

Stay safe and play nice, dears, and I will speak to you all soon.