Phrembah (a potato-like mystery) (phrembah) wrote,
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)

. . . an army of pompous phrases moving across the landscape in search of an idea.

--William McAdoo, of speeches by Warren G. Harding.

But, of Mr. Harding's prose, H. L. Mencken said:

    "He writes the worst English that I have ever encountered. It reminds me of a string of wet sponges; it reminds me of tattered washing on the line; it reminds me of stale bean soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. It drags itself out of the dark abysm of pish, and crawls insanely up the topmost pinnacle of posh. It is rumble and bumble. It is flap and doodle. It is balder and dash."

Just one of those amusing illustrations of how little things ever really change.

That would be a good title for an LJ, though: An Army of Pompous Phrases Roaming the Landscape In Search of An Idea.

. . .

Well, I just completed my Spring II Crash Finish Prioritized To-Do List.  We always seem to end up with one of those no matter how good our intentions at the beginning of the term.  All of the shit that has to happen, and the order in which it had better happen, in order not to fuck up at this late date.  Jeez.

. . .

T's dad died the other day.  It was kind of sudden, but not really.  He had been in a nursing "facility" for a few years.  He went into the hospital for a hip replacement and got a bladder infection from the catheter which somehow turned into a blood infection that caused significant brain damage.  At first he got along OK physically but had to be reminded constantly who his visitors were and how they were related to him.  He got worse gradually for a couple of years then finally got pneumonia and died over the span of a few days a few days ago.

Hospitals scare the shit out of me.  I knew somebody else who went into the VA Hospital here for something routine, got an infection, and never came out.

T's dad and Wicked Stepmother (her words, not mine) were always great to me in the old days when T and I had our repair shop.  They would call us up at 4:00 and say that they were putting on some soup and that we should come over after we closed the shop.  They had a swimming pool, one of those backyard things that's too small to really swim in, but just right for floating next to your little pool tray with your cigarettes, ashtray and drink on.  So we would go over and lounge in the pool till supper time, then eat, then have these loud heated Chivas-fueled discussions that would go on till way after midnight.

His dad and stepmother were both brilliant in those days and tremendous fun to talk to and argue with.  There was a competitive, almost aggressive tone to their "discussion," but it was always tempered with the graciousness one ought to accord a guest and a willingness to agree to disagree.  I had a great time.

Oh, well.

. . .

They did cancel the Java class with only three people signed up, so I spent two hours today trying to find something else to take that had negotiable prerequisites and didn't conflict with the Master Plan and finally just said screw it.  I can use the extra time to job hunt and probably should.

I was sort of resisting the idea of going back to Goodrich, though I was happy my last two years there.  I just had this "been there, done that" feeling about the place.  I wanted something more challenging and dynamic and new and such.  But . . .  I'm now wondering if Ol' Goodrich might not be sort of a safe haven that could be used to provide some economic stability while I try to complete a masters degree.  Hmmmm . . .  Of course I haven't even applied there, but T thinks I'm just what they need and there are folks over there who remember me well and kindly from the Before Time.  Hmmmm . . .
Tags: compelling chronicle, cute, profundity extraordinaire

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