I dial a primrose, they give me a pro

A meme! Via matociquala:

Pick up the nearest book to you. Turn to page 45. The first sentence describes your sex life in 2012.

"I telephoned Ozanne's secretary and said that I needed to see the colonel on an urgent matter, that it would take about an hour and that I would be grateful if Colonel Pollock could be present."

—Leo Marks, Between Silk and Cyanide: A Codemaker's War, 1941–1945 (1998)

(The follow-up sentence: "I also requested the use of a blackboard.")

Now I understand it, but back then, I did not

It is raining outside: drenching, appalling, congratulations-asshole-you-broke-the-planet January rain. There was supposed to be snow on the ground when I woke up, but I all I got when I left the house was raw hammering damp. I came home and made hot chocolate with goat's milk. It was the only reasonable thing to do.

The mail has brought my contributor's copy of Moral Relativism Magazine #3, containing my poem "Di Vayse Pave" ("The White Peacock"). It's a brilliant issue: the theme is "How Not to Be Wrong." There are personal essays and book reviews, praises of error and contemplations of paradox, responsibility, chaos, and the legal definition of death in Judaism; there is a parable of Sedna and Oannes and beautiful chimeric art, Maya Lilja Anderson's "Aminut." There is an epilogue of quotations from Thomas Mann to John Landis. Pick up a copy! And start thinking about the next issue—the reading period for "Divorce, Marriage, and the Sacred" is now open.

Yesterday rushthatspeaks and I found a four-dollar DVD of Werner Herzog's Invincible (2001) in the cheap used bin at Newbury Comics. There was really nothing else there worth buying. This is the sort of thing that happens to us.