Dan Kennedy Blog Thing: ReallySmallTalk.com

Early Attempts at a Syrup Container Shaped Like a Log Cabin.

by Dan Kennedy

Container shaped like shack with poor family on porch, filled with
molasses.

Slave figurine filled with fruit preserves.

Old fasioned Doctor's bag filled with syrup.

Log cabin filled with glue.

REALLYSMALLTALK'S WEEKEND HOT LIST!

SATURDAY!

Eat because you're bored.

Question yourself silently amongst small group of well-adjusted friends.

Pondering intentions.

Standing at refrigerator, looking in.

SUNDAY!

Regard flat, grayish light that seems to be trademark of Sundays.

Sinking feeling/anxious about tomorrow.

Vague memories of public schools in past, homework.

Ennui.

Go down slippery slope of thinking about past too much.

THREE THINGS ADAM WADE WANTS

by Adam Wade


1.) An agent, any kind of agent, a secret agent...whatever.


2.) An apartment under $1,000 a month, above sea level.


3.) To go golfing at Derryfield Country Club (the local course in my
hometown of Manchester, New Hampshire). On the 7th hole there's this
place called '7th Heaven'. It's run by an elderly man named Otis, and you
can get a hotdog with the works, a Whoopie Pie, and a Dr. Pepper for 3
bucks.

CLASSING UP THE JOINT

by Mia Skaili

Went to get some water in the lunch room this a.m. and this little gem was
puttering away. The Crock Pot® is not far behind. Classy.

REVISING THE U.S. FOREST SERVICE HIKING GUIDE

by Dan Kennedy

Page 2:

(District 4, Rocky Mountains, Yellow Stone National Park)

 
BISON

The North American Bison makes its home mostly in Yellowstone Park, but is often found in the lower Paradise Valley, and along some of the lower-mountain trails on your Beartooth Mountain hiking map. An immense and beautiful animal rich in American history, Bison are a point of interest with park goers and hikers for good reason. For the most part, the Bison will live up to their slow, good natured, even stride and temperament. Except for nine to twelve times a year. Imagine if cows had the ability to suddenly decide they were sick and tired of the way our society has regarded them for decades. And that suddenly, for no evident reason, they took it upon themselves to throw one of our kind about like a bloody rag doll, in a spasm of rage sparked by God knows what. For three hundred and some-odd days, it’s just a sunny day in the park and your friend the North American Bison is happy to stand still for a photo. Then on the other nine to twelve days, our friend the Bison seems suddenly as cagey as a member of the Manson family on bad acid, hell-bent on revenge against a society that has kept him in the margins for as long as he’s been alive. “Death to the rich pigs!” the Bison seem to be screaming into a mirror filled with a history of being run off cliffs, quartered for meat, skinned for coats, moccasins, and papooses, and dismantled for bones that would be fashioned into crude tools. Even if all the Bison can do is make an example of someone who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time that particular day, it seems good enough to their way of thinking. They posses an almost criminal logic free of remorse which tells them this kind of random death and disfigurement is justified, and even to be celebrated as fair turnabout. Safety tip: stay twenty feet away.

RECENT INCIDENTS IN MY LOVE LIFE: Version 2.1, #1

by Lucy Baker

I am rushing out of the Broadway/Lafayette Subway Station, late to meet a friend for dinner. I waited forever for the F at 23rd Street, and as I stood there on the platform willing the train to appear, I wondered how many minutes I spend each day—how many hours each year—staring blankly into these dark, empty tunnels. It was a depressing and poetic thought, and I congratulated myself for having it.

As I hurry up the steps, my heel catches on the frayed hem of my jeans. I pause and lean over to unhook it. When I straighten up, a man is grinning at me. He is wearing a Yankees sweatshirt and new sneakers. He looks like a tourist from some Midwestern town I’ve never been to.

“Excuse me, miss?” he says.

“Yeah?” I think he wants directions.

“Do you perform fellatio?” He reaches out to me, a wad of cash tight in his fist.

There are no words, so I just flip him off and keep on going. Rarely have I been so insulted. And not because he mistook me for a prostitute.

Because he only offered me $4.

FREEWAY SIGN OF TRUTH

A CALL FOR DISPATCHES

We have word that Lucy Baker is working on filing a report. We have a hunch that Adam Wade is cooking something up. In the meantime, there's this apropos of nothing in particular. We've also thought to ask you to send us the lamest corporate "To:all" emails you've rec'd. Strip out names and anything else that you might think is incriminating and send them along to contact[at]reallysmalltalk.com -- The idea is that we'll post a few of the most absolutely gaylord missives that your company sent to the entire staff. Subject lines that range from "Cookie is vomiting again, will be late" to "Come to the 'Even Penguins Poop' book signing party in the conference room!" Send along the most cringe inducing 'all-staff' emails that have landed in your inbox.

The AMC Pacer®

HELLO FROM CALIFORNIA

Note: Caught with little impact; single hook, relatively short battle. Condition when I released him: rested, ready, filled with vigor -- not one salmon was harmed in the making of this post.