Singing for sharks.
Sunday February 10, 2002
Oh, there’s stuff to say, about this and that and the other, and I’ve seen the Frontline and was not impressed, and I’ll have something to say on that if and when I get around to it, but first there’s Ruthie to tweak and stories to write and an essay and an introduction and there’s this pesky life that needs leading and, well, I’m in a hurry. So I’ll leave you with this story from Ananova about Barry White serenading some lovelorn dogfish, starry smooth hounds and tope, and this one about two people I feel I vaguely know but who don’t know me at all, in the peculiar manner of hanging out at cocktail parties and eavesdropping on everyone else’s conversations while not really saying much of anything yourself that the internet tends to foster (and it was written by this other guy whose work I’ve appreciated, too, but I stumbled over him because of one of the aforementioned other two, so it doesn’t really count), and I’ll even throw in this gallery of porn pictures with the people removed, which is really quite creepily fascinating, and utterly safe for work.