Sure, this detective might seem like a doofus, but he’s actually being accurate in his use of the word “ironic.” As a noun, “irony” means “the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of their literal meaning.” However, as an adjective, “irony” means “of, resembling, or containing iron.” I’d rather someone use the word correctly as an adjective (to describe a clothes iron) than incorrectly as a noun (to describe an event that’s merely unfortunate, or an attitude that’s merely sarcastic).
Archive for the ‘Chuckle Bros’ Category
Does this strip depict an American History lecture, as indicated on the whiteboard, or an English Language lecture as indicated by the text? My hope is that it depicts an American Language lecture celebrating the true spoils of the Revolutionary War. When the colonists beat back King George, they did more than win independence from the British. They also took the English language hostage and had their rowdy way with it. Two-hundred years later, their descendants unleashed American English on the world by way of movies and television. When phrases like “them younglins ain’t paid no nevermind to them there critters” reached Buckingham Palace, they knew their forefathers’ war had finally been won.
A lot of people use pet phrases without even knowing it. One of my college professors, for example, had a habit of finishing his sentences by assuring us that something was “a done deal.” “Turn the knob to 10,” he would say, “hit record, and (dramatic pause) it’s a done deal.” I also have a pet phrase. Every time my wife thanks me for something I say, “You’re welcome,” followed quickly by, “You’re damn welcome.” I started saying this so much (i.e. twice) that it became repetitive. Now I get self-conscious whenever I feel the urge to say it. Sadly, that’s quite often.
It’s been two months since the Lost finale and, as a fan of the show, I’ve been surprised by how infrequently I’ve thought about it since. Maybe that’s because I was so pleased with the final episode. I know it rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but I found it to be enormously satisfying; so satisfying, in fact, that I have little desire to dig for answers to any of the show’s lingering questions. I’m still interested in the 12-minute epilogue that will be included in the DVD box set, but I’m not expecting any sort of major revelation. I’m sure the story of Hurley and Ben running things on the island will be entertaining, but it’s also bound to be superfluous following the moving rumination on death that was the finale.
I’ve been to Canada a number of times, on account of the fact that I have relatives there. My maternal grandmother was born in New Brunswick, and when she was still alive she would visit her home country on a regular basis. I was lucky enough to tag along on several of those trips. I’ve been to Montreal, Toronto, and a small cabin somewhere in the woods of Ontario. While in Canada, I visited a buffalo farm, discovered a clearing on Mount Royal, and dined at a PFK (Poulet Frit a la Kentucky). However, not once did I see Mounties, hockey players, or lumberjacks. Go figure.
Every summer, my city hosts a massive downtown gorge-fest known as the Taste of Chicago. The offerings range from burgers and ribs to jerk chicken and sautéed goat, but as I navigated the Taste earlier this month, I noticed that something was missing: namely, breakfast. There were no pancakes, no waffles, and no plates of crispy bacon waiting to be devoured. This was a shame, given the number of 24-hour diners that dot the city. We’ve got the Golden Apple on the north side, Huck Finn Donuts on the south side, the Original Pancake House in the suburbs, and hundreds of other diners that are too numerous to name, but too wondrous to ignore. Maybe the city could set up a breakfast-only event earlier in the year. I have a hunch it would appeal to shift workers, retirees, college students, and those of us who prefer French Toast to a bowl of Cheerios.
Rainstorms can be instructive. For one thing, they can reveal the location of cracks in your foundation. That’s what happened earlier this spring when a short, sharp thunderstorm caused water to leak into my basement. There wasn’t a lot of water, and it wasn’t even visible against the white tile, but it was a nuisance. The medium-sized puddle soaked my brother-in-law’s tube sock and stayed stubbornly on the floor for 30 minutes as I cleaned it up with a rag and bucket. Fortunately, I removed some drywall, found the source of the leak, and had it repaired. Unfortunately, there’s now a big hole in my basement wall. And this morning I found another leak on the same wall. Looks like I’m going to have to gut the place and start over.