Wow, cool, flutes! I love flutes. Not really.
And do you know what I like less than the flute? The piccolo. Smaller, uglier, more piercing and annoying.
So I think I'll pass on the Flute Society's upcoming event, "A Piccolo Extravaganza!"
The group's web site advises, "Come early and try out a variety of piccolos!"
Oh God. Wait, I mean, Oh God!
The Washington Post today features "Philadelphia's BYO Revolution," by Jason Wilson, about the proliferation of "bring your own bottle [or booze]" restaurants in this city.
Wilson generally gets it right, in terms of both the advantages and disadvantages of the trend for diners. But with respect to the latter, what Wilson doesn't mention is the typical BYOB charges fairly high prices for its appetizers and entrees, presumably to make up for the profits lost by not selling wine and liquor. So, if you're not drinking, your money likely would be spent better elsewhere.
I'm worried about my neighbor. Whenever she comes home, no matter the time of day or night, I can hear her vomiting through the wall.
No, the vomit doesn't come through the wall, the sound of the act of vomiting penetrates the divide.
I think that's what she's doing, anyway, and it's kind of freaking me out.
What's causing this behavior? Bulimia? Or the fallout from an addiction of some sort? Something else, perhaps an asthma-induced coughing fit that while violent, really doesn't involve actual vomiting even if it sounds likes it does?
What should I do? Nothing?
Slip a brochure about drug rehabs under her door?
A friend is taking a college-level mathematics class, aiming to earn a degree in the field, and gee whiz, good for -- and brave of -- her for that.
A recent e-mail took me on a walk down memory lane, a very dusty path that, when she was saying something -- I didn't catch it all, even though I could have read it a hundred times -- about polynomials.
Oh, yeah, polynomials. Right, those. I remember. No I don't. And peeking in here, it probably will stay that way.
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