Virtual Flaneurism

Epic adorableness!

Again, an article title that delights me (from D-listed):

THIS LITTLE GIRL HAS NO FEELINGS ON THE INSIDE!!!!!

(I also adore that D-listed consistently refers to Prince Harry as "Prince Hot Ginge")

(Omg, the entire article is hilarious, too)

That's a coyote, by the by.

How horrible of a person does it make me that this headline made me writhe with laughter?

Skunk ruins Christmas for under-privileged children by spraying foul stench over $16,000 of donated gifts

Poor stanky children. I can only imagine the Mr. Magoo-esque hi jinks that led to this result.

The internet is broken today. I was just sent a link to a three minute video of a woman spinning her tires in the snow only to have the "funny" conclusion be her barely bumping into the house across the street (where the asshole neighbors filming the incident lived). This level of un-amusement is the internet in this pre-Christmas week of doom.

So, here's my favorite Frank O'Hara poem.

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.