Life is made up of the things that you know you'll never remember and those that you can't forget. Every day is an adventure…some are just smaller than others!
I am finally on Spring Break! Hooray! Of course, I have made a million plans, but mostly I have spent a lot of time looking out the window. Everything is so beautiful and green! Here are some of the things I have seen, either from the window or around the hood.Here is the first robin’s egg I saw this year. I’m seeing a lot of birds, because a cardinal built her nest in a bush by my garage. It’s right at eye level, which is really cool, except that every time I get close to it, which is often, because I have to in order to get to my car, the cardinal mama gets freaked out and comes at me with her talons all sharped and her pointy beak aimed at my third eye. She hasn’t even laid her eggs yet. Can’t we all just get along?
Saw this on a walk. Sometimes it pays to leave the couch. Not only did I see natural beauty, I also got the opportunity to see the beauty in human nature.
I saw a little natural booty opportunity between two frisky squirrels in a tree in my backyard. I know this happens all the time, but think about it – have you ever actually seen those furry fellows fornicating? I thought not. The foreplay lasted forever! They did this squirrel dance that looked like a lot of roughhousing and shenanigans, and then chasing, high jinx and tail flipping, and then one of the squirrels hopped up on the other one’s back, and then…well, come to think of it, then not much happened. The man squirrel just sort of looked around and then hopped off for more whackadoodely-doo antics. Maybe he weren’t mating. Maybe he was just storing his nuts for awhile.
This was in an alley. My eye was first caught by the weird kid size gold pompom. Go, glam! Then I noticed the woman’s business shoe – just the one, and standing at attention like it was guarding the pompom, perhaps protecting it from the puddle of urine that is just out of frame.Lots of stories here, non? I think this is a metaphor for all those happy, glitter-lovin’ kids who grow up to buy sensible shoes from Target and end up working a dead-end alley of a job, just a’pissin’ their lives away.
Of course, every spring, I’m compelled to get out into the garden, and this year is no different, except that I’m getting older and weaker. It’s getting increasingly taxing for me to haul the huge bags of organic composted soil up the slope that is my yard, and turning the red clay based dirt takes so long these days that I get frustrated and cranky. I love going to the nursery and buying all kinds of seeds and seedlings, plants and plantlets, vegetables and herbs and flowers that will come back every year or bloom brilliantly for just a short season. I buy way more than I can ever hope to get in the ground. This year: okra, 4 different kinds of eggplant, lots of different peppers (mostly hot and sassy, but some sweet or sexy, like shishito…just saying shishito is sexy…shishito…) tomato varieties, asparagus, radishes, chard, herbs, two kinds of beans, and lots of flowers. Hooray!
Congratulations to the lovely Kari on her latest flick, on to Edie for her Tony nominations!
This poignant memoir tells the story of how a young Parisian Jewish family almost miraculously survived the Holocaust–damaged and traumatized, to be sure–but intact. While her father was languishing in a German POW camp, 2 1/2-year-old Liliane and her 7-year-old brother Fred were sent to southwestern France, supposedly for a summer of fresh air and country living. That summer would end up lasting several years. While the children were away, their mother was arrested, held at the Drancy internment camp, and then deported to Bergen-Belsen, where she almost succumbed to typhus and malnutrition. This account of the unspeakable cruelty of the Nazis and their French collaborators is counterbalanced by the portrayal of the loving and compassionate French family that cherished Liliane as their foster daughter and to whom she remained close for the rest of their lives. Richman’s clear-eyed, unsentimental account of her family’s story is at once sobering and inspirational.
It’s not only the story not only of her own astonishing life but how it intertwined with the lives of her family. Much of the narrative takes place over the course of the the turbulent 1930s and 40s which was deeply marked by the war and, for Liliane herself, by her sojourn in southwestern France where she was sent to safety as a small child. When she returned to post-war Paris, and against all odds the family was reunited, Richman recounts in crystalline detail the difficult dynamics of a city and a family working out how to go on living. Full of the same resonant, clear-eyed imagery that I love in her poetry, Liliane’s book is full of memorable landscapes and portraits that convey the essence of the people and the times that formed the ‘bones’ of the woman and the writer she has become.
I’m always surprised whenever I read or write something. Even though I enjoy both, I wonder if each time will be the last time. Do I still have the patience, the willingness, the ability to become totally absorbed, swept up, completely alone with the voice in my head? Will I be smart enough, can I understand, will I be able to feel? It’s hard to concentrate, to narrow focus, to pay attention in a world that pushes and pulls. I wonder when I’ll find the time. I wonder if I’ll make the time.If I do, if I can, I know I’ll be rewarded, and I’ll be proud that I bothered.
Right now I’m reading three books, so I’m beaming. I like them all. They’re healing, like soup on the couch after the fever’s broke. (I’ve been laid up lately.) They’re rich and hearty, white butter on black bread. They make me talk like this. They keep me up at night. I think I want to marry them. (The doctor gave me some drugs. They didn’t do much for pain, but I think perhaps the doors of perception are opening. That reminds me: “When life shuts a door, open it. It’s a door. That’s how they work.” I think Ted said that inBill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Ted’s the smart one. http://variety.com/2015/film/news/frank-zappa-documentary-alex-winter-1201546906/ )
The first book wasUnaccustomed Earthby Jhumpa Lahiri. It’s a group of stories about familial relationship, be they blood born or chosen. I like it, especially Part II, which has a trilogy of stories about interwoven families that span time and place. Critics love Lahiri’s work; theNYT Book Reviewchose Unaccustomed Earth as one of the best books of the year in 2008, http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/14/books/review/10Best-t.html as didThe Washington Post,theLA Times, Time, NewsdayandPeople, and she won a Pullitzer Prize for another book,The Namesake. I like how she spends a lot of time on character development, and that they defy stereotypes. Many of them are Indian or Indian- American, and I like the cultural background that infuses the stories. They are all about real life, and so the stories are kind of quiet and easy to relate to. However, I think I must be missing something; the reviews say things like “shimmering”, “revelatory” and “ferociously good” – I don’t see it. She gives meticulous, detailed back-story, which I appreciate, but sometimes it’s a slog to get through, and after reading the book, I barely remember some of the stories. I enjoyed reading it, but I don’t have any urge to revisit it. Revisit it I will, though, as I read it for a class that I’m about to take, so maybe I’ll get a different perspective on it.
The next book I read is Colum McCann’s new collection of stories,Thirteen Ways of Looking. I tell you what, I love me some McCann! Come on, Colum! The title piece and first novella of three in this grouping just blew me away.McCann really lets the reader get to know the characters; you live with and even inhabit them, as much of the story is a stream of conscious narrative from the protagonist’s point of view. I loved the protagonist, a retired judge in his nineties – so smart, so witty, so unique, so human! It is the story of just one of his days, and I was sad when it ended…and happy when I realized I still had more stories to go.
The plots held me and sometimes baffled me with their content and construction. They are imaginative and well-wrought, each different and compelling I remember them all, and I think about them unexpectedly. And the wayhe writes! I found myself reading, then rereading, then getting up compulsively in the middle of the night to get a pen to underline words, sentences, whole passages. McCann is the opposite of small and simple. His prose is lush, extravagant and musical, fat and chewy with images, sounds and rhythms. For example…
“Curious thing, the snow, They say the Eskimos have eighty words for it. An articulate lot. Slush and sleet and firn and grain. Hoar and rime. Crust crystal vapor blizzard graupel. Pendular permeable planar. Striated shear supercooled. Brittle glazed clustered coarse broken. An insult of snow, a slur of snow, a taunt of snow, a Walt Whitman snow, a bestiary snow, a calliope snow, it’s snowing in Morse code, three longs, a short, a long again, it’s snowing like the ancient art of newspaper, it’s snowing like September dust coming down, it’s snowing like a Yankees Day parade, it’s snowing like an Eskimo song.” (p.56)
I know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but just the way the words swirl around you, how some of them go by in a blur,until, unexpectedly, your eye catches on one or two of them, a phrase, and you see it for what it is – so specific, evocative, pure – they way the words grow from flake to storm – dare I say ‘shimmering’? Damn, McCann, you kill me!
So, yeah, I loved that one. My mom gave it to me. She knows how to pick them!
The last book I’m reading isThe Devil In the White City, by Erik Larson. I’m pretty sure I’ve started this one before and never finished it. I’m into the subject matter – clever serial killer uses Chicago’s 1893 World’s Fair to lure hapless victims to their death; what’s not to like, right? It’s got history, mystery and a Ferris Wheel. Still, I’m finding it hard to get into, again, so more on this as it develops, if it develops.
Since I started this post, David Bowie died. Like so many, I loved him. He was so brave, dramatic and bold. He was never content to be just one thing, and he welcomed transformation and evolution. He spoke to us all, and we all thought he was talking just to us. He was magnificent and artistic. The way that he orchestrated his death, commingling it with the day of his birth, and the birthday of his latest album in a genre that refuses to be defined, all kept under wraps until the glorious, shocking, tragic reveal – life and death as art. There’s this word,ekphrasis, which means visual art transformed into verbal form. Bowie was fantastic ekphrastic.
Here is one of my favorite Bowie songs, though there are so many great ones it’s hard to choose. I love the opening lyrics in this;they’re like a movie, and the double meaning of “pull” pleases me. It takes you from sort of melancholy nostalgia tinged with regret to anthemic triumph – also, it has one of my favorite two word phrases of all times in it – “religiously unkind”. I can’t say I understand it all, but I sure do love how it makes me feel.
My Death
By Jacques Brel
My death waits like an old “roué”
So confident i’ll go his way
Whistle to him and the passing time…
My death waits like a bible truth
At the funeral of my youth
We drank for that – and the passing time…
My death waits like a witch at night
As surely as our love is bright
Let’s not think of that or the passing time…
But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do…
Angel or devil, I don’t care
For in front of that door…there is you.
My death waits like a beggar blind
Who sees the world through an unlit mind
Throw him a dime for the passing time…
My death waits to allow my friends
A few good times before it ends
Let’s not think about the passing time
My death waits there between your thighs
Your cool fingers will close my eyes
Let’s not think about the passing time…
But what ever lies behind the door,
There is nothing much to do
Angel or devil I don’t care
For in front of that door… There is you
My death waits there among the leaves
In magician’s mysterious sleeves
Rabbits and dogs and the passing time…
My death waits there among the flowers
Where the blackest shadow cowers
Let’s pick lilacs for the passing time…
My death waits there, in a double bed
Sails of oblivion at my head
Let’s not think about the passing time…
But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do
Angel or devil…I don’t care
For in front of that door
There is…me
Twice today, I have hurt the feelings of people I care about. This does not include the little girl I made cry yesterday. I was not being mean or malicious – I’m a real nice girl, you know. I was so intent on being sure that they understood what I was saying that I didn’t notice that they were misconstruing my meaning or misjudging my intent. It;s not so much the words I said; it;s that I didn’t notice their effect. When you talk,if you want ot be understood, you have an obligation to listen closely to whomever you are talking to, so closely that you can hear what they are saying, even if they are not using words. That’s how conversations work. You have to listen. Both times today the people reacted with anger and went off on me, and I didn’t understand what had happened. I didn’t see the signs. I wasn’t paying attention. I was just trying to be right. At first, my feelings were hurt. Now I’m ashamed.
I can’t wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll try harder, and I’ll be better.
Some months ago, I briefly became pregnant with the child of a Ph.D. in quantum physics, and for a few seconds I understood the nature of time:It was a small sphere, a compressed rubber band. The band was one long path, but its folds and loops touched one another in myriad places. A mite travelling along the band would experience it as linear, but by hopping one milifraction of a milllimetre it could cross to a section metres from its starting point. The sphere was tennis-ball-size, yet I knew it was infinite…
It is easy to time travel, the physicist says – we do it every day. Travelling backward is the problem. If a man goes backward, it is likely that he’ll do something that would prevent his birth, such a s kill his father. Time travel backwards is impossible unless, the physicist says, you dispense with causality, the belief that one thing can cause another, and embrace a world in which – as in Borges’s garden- there are many forking paths, and anything that can happen does. But if you do that, the physicist says, life becomes random and meaningless.
That makes perfect sense to me. There’s more to this story, but I don’t get it. I also didn’t understand Borges’ story “The Garden of the Forking Paths”, but to be fair, even though it was short, I didn’t read it all.
I wonder if I were to travel in time, either backwards or forwards, if I would develop the capacity to figure things out better. In some ways, I think I would; after all, I had no concept of geography until I drove across the country, and now when I envision some of the states through which I’ve traveled in my mind, they form themselves into the same colored-box patterns any 8th grade map of the US would. But it seems like if you were jumping around in time you’d begin each adventure as the same dumb-ass you were at the starting point, because you would not have the time to evolve from your experiences, because you kept messing with your own developmental continuum.
Really, for as much as I like the time-space-memory-experience thing, I don’t understand any of it. The most I get is that all those things exist, but that they are only understood through a personal, individual lens, which warps their meanings and makes them impossible to define in a way that is uniform and universally understood.
I guess you knew that already, huh? I wear glasses and all, but sometimes I suspect I’m a dummy.
I read another story by Rebecca Curtis, just to see if I could understand it. This one was LONG – but I liked it, and totally get it. Actually, it was pretty simple. Hooray! I can read! I’m only kinda stewpid!
Hooray! It’s feelin’ kinda Fall out there, am I right, or am I right, peeps?! I do love me a change of season. I was thinking about this just the other day, when I was staring out of the window instead of doing my grading, eating a pound of pumpkin seeds. I love pumpkin seeds, or “pepitas”, and my gorging on them is not just a seasonal thing. Year round I’ll get me a bag, chose a big fatty, lick off all the salt, and then crunch through the shell to to delicately flavored, almost buttery “nut” inside. Yum. Unfortunately, I have no self control, so I usually eat so many in one sitting that I make myself sick. I have also struggled with excessive blueberry gratification, but a particularly nasty reaction to a pint and a half indulgence pretty much cured me of that addiction. Anyhoo, I think that soon I’m going to have to cut back on the pepitas, even though I am loving them. My jaw hurts, and the sharp shells make shrapnel shards in my stomach, causing some unpleasant adventures in Pottyland. (Betcha didn’t think that’s where I was going with this little tidbit, did ya? Sadly, no matter where I set out, the toilet is where I usually end up.)
So anyway, I was eating my way through a small mountain of pepitas, staring out the window, thinking about fall harvest, and the harvest moon, and Neil Young, and the organization Young Life, which is an group that preaches Jesus to teenagers on public school campuses, and how Billy Ray was a preacher’s son, and how Billy Ray Cyrus’s son is a daughter named Miley, and that she don’t wear no clothes, and that it is weird that in the last couple of weeks, she’s been all over the tv, getting lots of coverage (ironic, considering her disdain for covering up), second only to the Pope.
I bring up the Pope as more than just a segue between one small, spicy, Latin American treat to another. I am confused by the Papacy. I don’t understand what the different hats signify, or why if there is a “Holy See”, and a touch from the Pope is holy and healing, why are most powerful smells the work of the devil. I don’t understand if the Pope’s word is supposed to be from God’s mouth, or if the Pope just studies and studies, and then tells everybody what he believes is the Truth. I don’t understand the Vatican, and why it gets to have special laws that exempt it from all sorts of other laws. I don’t have anything against Papa himself; he seems like an extraordinary man, and I think he does a lot of good, even though I don’t agree with all of his policies. I was surprised to see how revered he is in this country. I just didn’t know he was so popular – or should I say “popeular”?
In Spanish, they call the Pope “El Papa”, which means ‘the father’. “La Papa”, however, does not mean ‘lady father’, as one might infer. It means ‘the potato’.
Potatoes are delicious, but they can also be scary. The whole idea of Mr. Potato Head is frightening – nobody wants a potato for a head. It’s not as bad if you have a body like a tuber – check out my own tubular torso, circa yesterday – – but there are problems that remain unforeseen until you actually become a potato. And that’s just the beginning of the potato problem -the ‘tater tot’, if you will. Imagine the horror that would befall you if you ended up in a potato nightmare…papas Kafka-esque. Imagine being trapped in that particular potato vine, unable to escape, running in circles like a yamster on a wheel…
Checkout this pre-Halloween Super Scary Spud Story, “Subsoil”, by Nicholas Baker, below. It’s the third story, and it begins at 29.27. I know I’m asking you to work a little for this… but it’s worth it. The story “Cretan Love Song”, by Jim Shepard, which precedes this story is great, too, and is a really wonderful example of effective use of the tricky second person point of view, making this short a trick and a treat, but it didn’t exactly fit into the theme of my post, so I won’t mention it.*
The last movies I have watched were Full Metal Jacket (1987) and Do The Right Thing (1989). Today, I found myself humming a song from Singin’ in the Rain (1952).The last book I read was The Crucible. An oldie but a goldie, published in 1953. All meritorious selctions, but not exactly au courant,.. I would hate to think that my zeal for the new is blunted by my innate indolence, so I decided I should watch some of the moretalked about (what those in biz call “buzzworthy”, a phrase coined in the 80’s) shows of the Fall TV season. To find out what was hot, I went to the New York Times (established in 1851), and watched this: http://www.nytimes.com/?WT.z_jog=1&hF=t&vS=undefined.
The first thing I watched was Scream Queens on Fox. It’s terrible. Just awful. Stupid, stereo-type enforcing, gratuitous, racist and misogynist. Way to bust my fully warranted expectations, Fox. Truly bad. Don’t watch it. It will make you hate yourself.
Also, don’t judge me because I watched it. I’ve suffered enough.
The other thing I viewed was The Muppets. It’s the NEW Muppets, though. The Muppets were first created in 1955, but these are new. Very 2015.
I’ve gotta say, it started out pretty damn sadly. First of all, why are The Muppets always so down on their luck? Kermit’s depressed -feeling kinda ‘green’ if you will – on account of he married a pig. I think they got divorced, though. Either that or Kermie’s porking a sassy, younger piglet, and nobody cares about the pain of animal adultery. I guess you can’t teach an old frog new tricks.Members of the band are in rehab, and Fozzie’s not funny. Truthfully, he never has been, not since he was created in 1976 – a bicentennial bear. Elizabeth Banks (apparently she’s famous) threw Scooter off of a moving vehicle twice, and there was all this rampant puppet neurosis that made me think about rejection and the loneliness of the latchkey child in the turbulent 70’s. And also macrame planters, but that’s unrelated.
Ah, muppet babies! I’m sorry your show wasn’t funny! Hang in there, little frog man! I just hope he doesn’t Kermit suicide.
Yep. Just hope he doesn’t croak.
So, anyway, looks like my oldest, dearest friend and I – me and the ol’ T & V – ain’t gonna be seeing all that much of each other for awhile.
Except…wait! There’s always Turner Classic Movies, PBS documentaries and Teen Mom! And CBS Sunday Morning and reruns of That 70’s show and Jeopardy! Hooray! I’m back, Telesweetie! I can’t quit you!
This is my version of a live tweet. It’s not live, nor is it on Twitter. Deal with it.
1. CNN gives the media a bad name. It is now 37 minutes into this debate, and the first substantive question has been asked. The moderator said he wanted to be equitable in allowing people to speak, but prior to this point, all the questions have been directed to Trump, who brings me to my next point:
2. Is Republipig a word?
3. Trump says he would get along with Putin, which makes me wonder about shirtless photo ops. I wonder what the Donald’s chest hair looks like? Orange nipple comb overs?
4. Ted Cruz looks like the son of the kid on the Munsters and the Penguin. Just Google any picture of Senator Cruz to see what he means. In this one he looks like a real sad and hungry baby bird of prey.
Ca Caw! Somebody feed him a Democrat!
5. Both Jeb Bush and Mike Huckabee believe that Kim Davis, the clerk in the progressive state of West Virginia, should have accommodations made for her so that she wouldn’t have to obey the law, which allows gays to marry, and sign their marriage certificates. What accommodations would those be? That she doesn’t have to do her job? True, the parameters of her job changed suddenly…that’s happened to me before. I disagreed with the new direction my company was going in, and had to quit. I don’t get what accommodations can be made that allow a person not to do what they are paid to do. However, I’d like to invoke that rule, as lunch duty is against my beliefs. It infringes on my liberty and I conscientiously object to it.
6. Boy, those Republicans sure do hate Pro Choice.No, wait, they just hate Planned Parenthood. No, it’s Reproductive Rights. And Iraq.
7. Ooh! Now they’re talking about immigration! I can’t wait for someone to quote from “The New Colossus”! Just in case you forgot, here is Emma Lazarus’ iconic American poem.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
8.Trump says if he deports millions of people, “the good ones will come back – they’ll be expedited.” Oh, Donald! Sure, everybody believes that!
12. Brag-a-do- see-oh, or Brag-a-do-chee- oh? You be the judge! Republican Debates, 2015!
13. Which would you rather have: 10 billion dollars, and be forced to give up 1 billion to make your country run, or ten dollars, and have to give up one of them for the same reason? Rand thinks it should be 14.5% of income across the board, as opposed to the 10% I have described, but I am mathematically challenged, so I don’t even know what the hell he’s talking about.
14. Scott Walker on raising the minimum wage: We should not do it, because then people won’t want to get an education, which would allow them to get a higher paying job. I forgot that the only reason people try to learn things and evolve is to get paid well. Silly me, it all makes sense now! The only way to get people to better themselves and pursue academic enrichment or stimulation is to pay them less. Consider this teacher schooled! And how ironic! I learned my lesson from a man who hates teachers!
15. This Guy Smiley dude who is moderating the debate is bugging the crap out of me. It’s official.
16. Rubio dealing from both hands! He’s a senator who hates the Senate!
17. Man-oh-man! What an “I’m rubber, you’re glue” 7th grade bully fest! All they need is a toilet to shove someone’s head in! How un-presidential! How un-high school even!
18. Much like my live Tweet coverage of the 2014 Miss America pageant, I have become sleepy and disinterested in my responsibility to broadcast my opinions in an uninformed and loud manner…
19. On weed: Which of these peeps would I want to get high with? Hmmmm. That’s a tough one.I wish Al Franken was on the stage. I’d get high with Obama, but he’s already such a slow talker… I don’t know if I could take it. If Michelle was there too, at last the snacks would be healthy. I’d even party with George Bush (the younger, of course.) I think that would eb funny, and maybe we could eat Doritos and paint. The only other person in politics I can think of is maybe Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
20. 21. Wait, what? Carson’s mom was one of 24 children who married when she was 13! Now that’s a family history I want to know more about! What do you have to say about that, Rubio?
21. Ah, climate change! Rubio: Proposals regarding climate change will ruin the economy. Only billionaires are for doing something about climate change.Billionaire Democrats. Besides, China is the bad guy – they should have to deal with it. Christie: There is a climate change crisis, but the government shouldn’t have to deal with it. We should go nuclear, like Jersey! Walker: We can’t do anything that will make any difference, so we should do nothing!
And, that’s it for climate change! Back to Trump! Who says…
22. Regardless of science, vaccines are due to the rise in autism.
23. Carson and Trump, sittin’ in a tree…
24. Huckabee wants a war on disease. That’s weird. He’s such a holy man, and he knows what God wants. If God made disease, why should the federal government declare war on it? Get out of my cells, government!
All right, that’s all I’ve got. This is your faithfully ignored pundit, signing off.
Here is the first robin’s egg I saw this year. I’m seeing a lot of birds, because a cardinal built her nest in a bush by my garage. It’s right at eye level, which is really cool, except that every time I get close to it, which is often, because I have to in order to get to my car, the cardinal mama gets freaked out and comes at me with her talons all sharped and her pointy beak aimed at my third eye. She hasn’t even laid her eggs yet. Can’t we all just get along?
Saw this on a walk. Sometimes it pays to leave the couch. Not only did I see natural beauty, I also got the opportunity to see the beauty in human nature.
This was in an alley. My eye was first caught by the weird kid size gold pompom. Go, glam! Then I noticed the woman’s business shoe – just the one, and standing at attention like it was guarding the pompom, perhaps protecting it from the puddle of urine that is just out of frame.Lots of stories here, non? I think this is a metaphor for all those happy, glitter-lovin’ kids who grow up to buy sensible shoes from Target and end up working a dead-end alley of a job, just a’pissin’ their lives away.
– but there are problems that remain unforeseen until you actually become a potato. 
And that’s just the beginning of the potato problem -the ‘tater tot’, if you will. Imagine the horror that would befall you if you ended up in a potato nightmare…papas Kafka-esque. Imagine being trapped in that particular potato vine, unable to escape, running in circles like a yamster on a wheel…
Also, don’t judge me because I watched it. I’ve suffered enough.
Just Google any picture of Senator Cruz to see what he means. In this one he looks like a real sad and hungry baby bird of prey. 
