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A little lagniappe.

The Fun Aunt Takes a Turn for the Mom

I’m a Fun Aunt. The job of a Fun Aunt is to take you to see the midnight showing of Harry Potter, let you taste a beer, not make you brush your teeth, take you to a baseball game, and make sure you stay up past your bedtime. I do those things because they make you happy, and because tomorrow, you’re going back to your mom. It doesn’t hurt to skip a shower once in a while, or eat Little Debbie cakes for dinner, or say as many swear words as you can in 15 minutes. These things are harmless because tomorrow, you’ll go back to your regular life, and your mom will make sure you take a shower and brush your teeth, have clean clothes and nutritious food, and wake up in time for school. She will drive your carpool, pick up your prescriptions, and make sure you feed …

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Writing When You Wanna

So, I’ve started to entertain a possibility: Maybe people with motivational issues shouldn’t try to be novelists. I say this as someone who’d rather be doing something else. Preferably, nothing at all. Thing is, doing nothing doesn’t fill up the page, unless you spill something on it. Now, being slightly neurotic and having a vague, discontenting “itch” to write can ameliorate some of the amotivational symptoms. So can setting ground rules like “No huffing ether all day and watching Naked Lunch until you produce a thousand words.” But rules like that are easily broken. “Brain hurts, can’t write. Ether will fix everything!” is an easy argument to make, after all. Other jobs, however, would seem a more natural fit. Civil servant is a good example “” a gig I once held. My motto then was “We do more by Friday than most people do all morning!” For you youngsters out …

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Oh, No! It’s the Gummint!

So, the lightbulb. That thing with the spiral metal base that you struggle to use, if you’re joke-Polish. This humble source of mirth, as well as shining example of a great idea, and/or the fruit of Edison’s dogged efforts, is now a political hot potato of sorts. Which is great, given that a lightbulb is, roughly, the size of a hot potato, and if powered by a glowing, molten tungsten filament, nearly the right temperature, as well. Where we all went wrong was when compact fluorescent lightbulbs raised their dastardly heads into the fray. These bulbs are all wicked, y’see, on account of “¦ uh, they cost more? And they’re not all warm and fuzzy like white-hot tungsten, I guess? And they hate puppies and apple pie and freedom? Or, maybe, it’s just that the government made the mistake of sticking its giant Uncle Sam nose into our lightbulb aisle …

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