Potpourri 2

My Friday Vow of Silence makes it impossible for me to write — my usual manner of composition is to dictate all my posts to a mute, feeble, immensely old and angry man wearing only a hospital gown who lives in the corner of the room where he rests on a bed of straw — but I would not leave you Niceworkaholics without the thing you crave. So, after much internal debate, I have decided to give you another Potpourri. It requires no writing on my part. No speaking either. I simply point with a yardstick at items of interest and my aged amanuensis — whose name, if I can trust the plastic band on his bony wrist, is Gabble — will render it into suitable hypertext markup language.

Okay, Gabble, look alive.

• My daughter had the afternoon off, so we went to the movies. We saw Speed Racer and we enjoyed it immensely. I have to wonder, though: what were the Wachowskis thinking? Who did they imagine their audience would be? Me and Liz, sure, but who else? It’s like a kid’s movie made by someone who never had a kid, or met a kid, or who had ever been a kid. If Julie Taymor directed Cars with the script from Talledega Nights rewritten by Victor Appleton and again by Jack Kerouac, Speed Racer is the film you might get.

• Do you realize it has been ten years since Frank Sinatra died? Hard to believe. I thought he died forty years ago. Surely he was dead before he recorded Strangers in the Night?

• You like Lemon Bars? Okay, here’s a really great recipe for Lemon Bars: If you are looking for a really great Lemon Bar recipe then click anywhere on this sentence: here, or here, or anywhere really, since the whole thing is linked for your convenience, including the parenthetical bit at the end about why I capitalize the phrase “Lemon Bars” (which I do out of respect for the wonderful confection). Go see.

• My name is not “Gabble!” What nonsense! Who is named Gabble? My name is Gable, but my tongue was burnt in a lemon bar accident and it’s hard to enunciate, dammit. I hate lemon bars. Hate ‘em. That’s all they ever serve at the Extended Care Home. Now there’s a laugh for you: “Extended Care Home.” How many lies can you count in those three words. Bastards! I wonder if they miss me yet?