leden 2010

ne po út st čt so
          1 2
3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20 21 22 23
24 25 26 27 28 29 30
31            
Creative Commons License
This work by Jaime Nichols is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

« All Things Nordic, Pt 1: The Frozen North | Main | Good Stuff to Read »

Comments

Tosho the Chandler

Crazy Baybee,
I know how you feel about those cool nordic men. When I was a child and my 'mones were fillin out their newly found extremities I discovered a passion for a little duo named NELSON. The thoughts of these bookends turning me into the warm marshmallow filling of a human s'more still keeps me warm at night. Then I moved on to HANSON. Oh yeah, in an MMMBop they're gone. Yeah.
Oh...if spermicide were genocide I would be the Stalin of self abuse. If you get where I'm comming from?
XXOO
Tosho the Chandler

Jane Herself

Tosh,

I do get where you're coming from... but I must say that, as a teenaged girl, I really had no similar impulses. I was much more enraptured by the romance of my violinist's hair when he played the thrilling parts, and by the flowers around my ballet dancer's feet; no imagination of a carnal nature occupied me, nor could it have been more satisfying. I was much more of an idealistic Woodrow Wilson, I think.

Moreover, this was a GIRLISH rumination, if you please. I know you are used to being the queen, but as The Queen of this website, I must ask you to KEEP IT CLEAN.

Affectionately,
Jane

Tosho the Chandler

Dear Crazy Baybee,
How quaint to apple moi la “queen’. So recherché. Now let me see if I have this right:
As I was sitting on the moist heather quietly humming the latest gift of the boys known as NELSON, even quieter yet as I wove fresh, full and fragrant stems of lavandula agustafolia, grown from seeds my mother brought back from a summer in Provence, into sachet wands to grace my handkerchief drawer, I thought and grew moist, moist in the eye as I wondered if I would ever be happier. The sensuous scent mixing serendipitously with the sweet sound of their song propelled me to a new level of sad-happy melancholia knowing that I would never feel this way but once. Warm tears, gently expressed, flowed from their lachrymal origins reconfirming that I was now and forever washing away the remnants of my childhood. It was the week that Nureyev died. It was time to grow up. The great comfort yet to come was in the unknown to be called HANSON. I took out my handkerchief , placed the long dewy, purple tipped wand into it and wrapped my hand around it, never wanting to let it or my youth go.

Tosho the Chandler

As I was fond of hauling out my instrument to proudly display my ineptitude whenever he came over, I can only hope I was cute, because I know my skill with the instrument was less than compelling.

Crazy Baybee,
How naughty but I totally understand. At least men understand an instrument when it is done well or pounded, blown or fingered badly.

Jane Herself

I'm not sure which is more purple-tipped, your "wand" or your pen. Perhaps we can just be postmodern about it and just say "same difference."

Cheers!

rcjohnso


'Tosho', eh? Very very clever... MR. YEDLIN!

Jane Herself

Ok. THAT was pretty much the funniest comment EVER.

The comments to this entry are closed.