I never told you about the time I ate Fred the goldfish. Fred was Karl Needlemeyer’s goldfish, who we usually only watched swimming around his little goldfish bowl as a kind of silent protest whenever Karl’s mom told us that we were getting “too rambunctious” and it was time to go outside and play.
My first set of wheels was a red Radio Flyer wagon. My grandpa used to drag me to the butcher and the fish store in it, which always seemed like a lot of fun until he bought a bunch of chicken livers, or the fishmonger gave him a bag full of old fish heads to take home for our cat. …[ Read More ]
More and more of my life is in the cloud. I’m not sure what the cloud is, or why the geeky powers-that-be have decided my life needs to be in it, but I know that from now on everything important that I do, say, write, listen to, or photograph will be stored up there, right beside ten million videos of …[ Read More ]