A clog blog.
September 17th, 2009
Wow Mom Wow is Mom Wow Mom upside down. These clogs tickle you in a good way? Then you should definitely check out the gallery of custom orders here. You can design your own. Or use a signature design.
Like these listed below.
Clog for the Cure.
(A special Swanx-thanks to Lindsey Spratt for sending these along.)
This is about:
Locked out.
September 17th, 2009
I left my office key at home so my laptop’s plugged into the hallway jack, waiting for someone to get here as early as I did, so I can go inside and get on a server. Made “convertible” keys this weekend, to fit in my pants with more ease, and left off the office one, only realizing it as I pressed the button to floor four this morning. Now I’m on four’s floor, hoping for a way inside.
Dear Sesame, Why aren’t you open? False advertising.
This is about:
A goodun.
September 8th, 2009
Q:
Why does Irish stew only have two hundred and thirty nine beans in it?
A:
Because any more and it’d be too farty.
(Thank you, Cheryl Birkey. I love you.)
This is about:
Taking the waters.
September 7th, 2009
Nope I did not really shower this weekend and yes that it saying something, but it was one hell of a weekend. Both on the inside and outside. Seems apropos to dip into cold-as-balls water to wash off a weekend like this: one of thinking and drinking and feeling feelings and talking about them out loud. A weekend of whisky, irish, in flasks and also in overpriced and underpriced portions. A weekend of friends. And dancing, the two stepping kind, yes, but also the freer kind with not much room to make many steps really — wearing someone else’s dance moves like some sweaty paintbrush.
Seems only natural to go to the waters, those that are continually blessed by buddhist monks or so we, the regulars of taking the waters, like to tell one another, an affirmation of the tingling skin afterwards, that feels like it’s coming from some other much higher vibration and yep, there really isn’t anything like it, we say, wondering if we may ever learn, dammit, this hill gets our towels all muddy. Every time.
Here’s to the real end of the summer, admittedly, even in Armpit Austin, Texas, we have to call an end someday. Here’s to growth and patterns shattering, here’s to the grass being greener, not over there; but right here. In front of me.
And sometimes that grass is actually water.
