Behold! The heretofore unexplored regions of family pets!
You’ll have to pry it out of Daddy’s hands, but If you can find an older person who is prone to napping in front of the tv, you can use them as a visual aid for the young ‘uns. Get up close to some of those lesions on grandpa’s pate and your kids will never leave the house without sunscreen again.
I grew up on the series in the UK, and imprinted helplessly on the manic Tom Baker incarnation of the time lord. I still love men with crazy teeth and curly hair. The theme song alone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. As a kid, I often watched it from behind the couch when the rubbery monsters declared themselves. Ask any Brit, and they will affirm the same. We are all Wholigans.
One of the joys of parenting while your kids are still small is forcing them to also imprint on the cultural footholds that anchored your own development. So when Friday night trips to the movies started to feel like a rip-off and a punishment for me, I found Dr. Who on Netflix, and made a standing appointment with the Doctor.
Now we are all utterly hooked. The episodes are clever, with saucy humor hidden between the lines for adults, and an over-arching ethos of courage, non-violence and cunning. There is a lovely lexicon of catchphrases, and long-running naratives to weave it all together. The baddies are scary, but not too scary.
The Doctor has already transmorgified a couple of times since we jumped in, so there’s one for everyone – the doe-eyed consumptive appeal of David Tennant, the rough-trade bulk of Christopher Eccleston, and the newest incarnation, the natty dorkihunk of Matt Smith
Episodes are short, and the back catalog is bottomless, so unroll the sleeping bags, make the popcorn, and have yourself a marathon of bbc goodness. After a couple of episodes you will rue all the money you’ve hurled at Pixar on your Friday nights over the years.
before lady gaga, before madonna, before chrissie hynde, there was yoko. reviled, misunderstood, resilient, relentless. She’s 77 goddam years old today, and still cooler than the all the rest of us put together.
At Tile Hill Woods School and Language College, in Coventry, the school uniforms are a seriously unsexy green. When I attended, there was a little brown hat that went with it, dialing the humiliation right off the freaking charts. There was a lot of Muslim students, too, but no-one wore a headscarf/hat every day. Maybe they were sent to school with a headscarf, but stashed it away on the bus. I had a pair of shoes that I hated because they made me look like something out of a creepy swedish folk tale. I would take them off on the bus and put my old pinchy shoes on instead.
So the school uniform policy has had to evolve to embrace the salwar kameez . Can you imagine the misery of yards of dark green polyester draped all over your body and your head?
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself
In dark woods, the right road lost.
In the up-slope direction the forest thins, revealing a ground almost denuded of foliage; the path is lined with faux-marble statuary and tinkling wind chimes.
The way leading down into the forest valley seems treacherously uneven, overgrown with moss and littered with ice-cream sandwich wrappers and empty killians bottles.
The news is full of cougars, milfs, gilfs, as our new modern standard for proper middle age. There’s simply no excuse for not being in flared lounge pants and a supportive top. But the pantheon of elder females from my childhood was rather different. These women were sturdy and slow moving. I recall their bodies as huge monoliths of compressed flesh. They could take one of today’s cougars down with a hairgrip shiv and make it look like a tanning bed accident all while stretching the roast for one more supper. I would very much like to see our culture re-aquaint itself with that rarely-tapped minority, the battle-axe.
How did women earn that epithet?
Imagine such a tool, heavy and sharp, nicked along its blade by the occasional resistant femur, its handle stained by all the ways a person can leak. It’s aesthetic value is entirely based on it’s ability to illustrate a narrative, one of survival, loss, utility and despair.
When one finds oneself in peril deep, there is nothing quite so reassuring as the matter-of-fact, patrician tone of an army manual. Where else can you get the answer to the question of intestines – to tuck back in, or not? answered calmly, clearly. No. Do not tuck them back in. Bandage them where they are, against the body.
When the plague hits, when the sky rains ruin, when you are inside out, here you will find the most important survival skill of all: chin up.
I’m afraid I am going to have to levy an N.S.F. fee for your failure to cover your withdrawals. This will put your account into the negative beyond your transactional buffer, for which you will incurr another fine. At this point your account will be frozen until you make contact with an account representative, who will assist you, for a fee, to unlock your account. If you would like a paper statement of your account transactions, that will be another $10.
It’s an appropriately earnest and joyless effort, yet riddled with rabbit holes. Parts of it have been translated into all the languages of the world. The part that has the most translations is a diagram of the water cycle. it’s in Sotho, Kyrgyz, Wolof. I guess if you are an Wolof speaker, and you want to know about America, all we are prepared to say to you is “Look! Rain!”. When the Wolof person looks up, America will dash away…