Friday, October 31, 2008
Or, given how labor-intensive it can be at times to write our columns, I suppose another solution is to take the original inquiry you messed up, change a word or two (along with the sender's name and location), and pray your readership has a short memory.
What Mr. Know-It-All didn't count on is MoCo Lotion's powers of recollection. Oh, yeah, I also haven't blogged in a few months, and my initial outrage at the original error still appears on the front page of this blog, just three stories below this one.
Here's the excerpt from today's column, as it appears in the Examiner.
And, just to refresh your memory, here's the first inquiry as it appeared nearly four months ago:
Shame, shame, shame.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Hands dripping wet, I found neither paper towels nor the standard electric hand dryer. What I did find was the XLerator, a supercharged electric hand dryer. The XLerator delivers a blast of air so intense, the skin on my palm was visibly pushed into a perfect circle for the six or seven seconds it took to completely dry my hands. I couldn't believe it, to the point that I returned to the sink to wash my hands (and dry them) again. With the nifty foamy soap, to boot.
The air velocity where your hands should be, four inches below the nozzle, is 14,000 feet per second. Some quick calculations translate that into a wind speed of 159 miles per hour, or a Category 5 on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Out of concern for their three young children, the announcement was timed to coincide with the media focused on the Summer Olympics and the Russian-Georgian war. Unlike celebrity couples like Brad and Angelina, George and Pam have somehow managed to fly under the radar and keep the paparazzi at bay, refusing to negotiate to sell photos of their 2002 wedding or three young children to People and US magazines. Nor have they allowed themselves to be known by the unifying moniker "Peorge."
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Audiences in the early '60s didn't see this without the benefit that I--as a doctorate of 1960s and '70s television--know from a lifetime of daily reruns (or DVD box sets) that allow you to see the different Pickles a few days or hours apart. And with only a small part in five Pickled episodes, the Pickles switch is not as obvious as more prominent TV land hijinks, such as when Elizabeth Montgomery swapped Dicks.
But my vote for the best Pickles ever: the Rosoff Half-Sour. Mmmmm.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
So I shared it with a friend, and he provided some additional observations. Observations that made the story all the more bloggable--just not from my keyboard.
So instead of borrowing his observations to tag onto my story, I promptly relinquished all blogging rights to the tale to Mr. Moose's Story Book. Enjoy.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
No way. This is too weird. (And you can download it here for the next two weeks or so to see for yourself.) Shakespeare, Hemingway, Stephen King and J.K. Rowling have yet to make the BlogLog two weeks in a row, how did this happen to me?
I boarded car #1125, and (having had a nice rain yesterday) took a whiff. Yuck. Fate suddenly turned me into a disguised Neil Simon in the back of the Plymouth Theatre during previews of The Odd Couple, sharpening up the script based on the audience reaction.
It didn't occur to me how many Metro riders read the Express until I had a vested interest in its circulation this morning. And from my vantage point, I could see that practically all of them were favoring Express over Examiner. Based on my limited survey sampling of one subway car, the fullsize, "big-boy" paper, The Washington Post, is a distant third.
I was actually close enough to about a half dozen Express readers to see what page they were reading. So I discreetly kept a watch on them as, at various times, they each reached Page 36 and the BlogLog.
Some smiled. One pointed it out to his Examiner-reading seatmate. All of them took a noticeable sniff to verify my olfactory assessment of conditions in the antique 1000-series cars.
Now I was no longer Doc Simon in the back of the theatre. I was Clark Kent, standing idly by with that cocky, knowing smile as Lois and Jimmy marvel at Superman's latest and greatest feat at the end of every episode.
Do I take this ego trip full-tilt on my ride home tonight and rip open my shirt in full view of the Express readership to reveal the large "M" tattooed on my chest? Naaaah. Just knowing that this blog is read and apparently found to be engaging by at least one reader is enough to keep me posting on a semi-regular basis.
Thank you for your support and continued encouragement. Doors closing!