Pansy dishware

Or perhaps dishwear, the jury is still out. Bizarre search term of the week, and apparently a lot of people are coming to this site from a posting at Disturbing Search Requests. Welcome. You’ll come for the pansy dishware, but you’ll stay for the glycerol ester of wood rosin. (I am so going to regret that.)

Well, finally, it’s beautiful and hot. Got in a quick 18 mile bike ride after work, and I was just dripping by the end. Important rule to remember when using the aerobar: don’t change handlebars when a car is passing you. You change handlebars when a car is passing you, you’re gonna make a mistake, you’re gonna have a bad time. (Sorry, I’ve had that South Park skiing episode jammed in my head for several days. That and a number of lines from They Might Be Giants, such as “She doesn’t have to have / her dB’s record back now….”).

Say a little prayer to whoever is the patron saint of turboprop aircraft, as I’m off to Rochester tomorrow. I so don’t want to go. The people are making me go. I really don’t want to do this. Arrgh. The only thing worse than driving to Rochester and back is flying to Rochester and back. Nothing against the Flower City (or the Flour City, for you non-revisionists), but it’s just far enough away to be annoying, and not far enough away to justify an overnight. Great bike path, though. Won’t get to play on it tomorrow. I don’t even get frequent flyer miles for this debacle.

Hey, somebody remind me, I’ve got to write about a slew of reunions coming up. Plus, that whole eating-pizza-at-the-Varsity-with-my-little-girls thing. But first, I need to get a new keyboard for this thing, as the right shift key is becoming less and less sporadic in its operation, and not in favor of shifting things. I know the younger generation isn’t all worked up over capitalization and spelling and those niceties in this, the computer age. But, even though I remember well pleading with our Personal Use Typing teacher to PLEASE let us take our tests without having to capitalize (this was back in the day, son, on heavy manual typewriters — when hitting the shift key was Man’s Work, and carbon paper was treated like gold leaf), I’ve grown fond of capital letters, largely correct spelling, and any number of the special characters sitting up above the digits, reachable only with that darned shift key.

By the way, if you’re looking for photos, click on the Fotolog button to the left. It’s much easier than posting them on this site. Go on, click it; you know you want to.

— Mr. Johnson, returning to this pretentious sign-off device, remembers when typewriters had no numeral “1”. You do, too, but you won’t admit it.