I have a deadline for The Advisor. But I will be blogging more substantively tonight in time for your fresh cuppa RSS tomorrow.
I have to hit the post office by Friday to send off some mailbox love to TC, HLP, and New Solution Seeking Prof (and maybe Puffery Prof). But alas, Friday is the deadline. And Saturday morning I fly. I may have to wait until I come back from my weekend road trip.
Ever heard of Found Magazine? I'm also thinking of sending the magazine a bunch of bizarrely torn up pictures I found on the ground of This One Guy while walking on the street. It was pictures of the same guy, against the same saturated blue sky, with the same pose and vacant expression, with a testosteroney aggressive jawline and chin dimple, buzzed hair and gold pimp chain. I found about five photographs--most torn up into thirds or halves, one whole--strewn across both sides of the street on the North side of town. Weird! I saw this and thought "break up." And then "where's his clothes?" Because I was sure they'd also be tossed out on the curb, and I think big pimp chains are pretty on petite girls as bold chunky jewelry. Alas, no pimp chain for Belle. But this isn't that original a find. Torn up pictures of the Ex Boyfriend are not exactly like the Rosetta Stone of finds for this magazine. I need to scrounge more. Heck, maybe leaving the house more would help. I never did make good on my promise to The Roomie to study outside more. All of my stuff is here, as is my Levenger editor's desk! Not to mention a steady supply of tea and baked goodness. I should get out more though. But I'm trying to do that in other ways. TC, HLP are helping. But yes, perhaps I will make it a point to look around more when I do leave the house, if only in hopes of finding coolness. (and yes, always wash your hands afterwards).
The above picture was another great find. I'm always tempted to raid the bins at Kinko's for love letters or oddities. Except that it's slightly ghetto. The scrounging, not the reading other people's mail. That I love. Open Letters are great, but they just don't satisfy the illicit thrill. Maybe this is why I love epistolary novels.
Go out and seek your fortunes, or at least open your eyes and see if there's anything interesting on the ground or discarded on a table. Some note or photo. A letter, maybe.