thedailychannel.com — adventure
Like many people, I don't understand everything but at least I'm still trying to understand. One thing I don't quite get is the value of advertising an online magazine that itself was not generating any revenue. However, this appears to be the case with Slate.
Ah, here it is. An ad placed by Microsoft for Slate in Harpers:
"The thinking person's website." "Slate online magazine. It's what everyone is talking about off line. The editorial creation of journalist Michael Kinsley, Slate is media, politics, technology, high and low culture... all with a certain insouciant smirk that thinking people find compelling."Well, THAT explains a lot, don't you think? For one thing, my insouciant smirk. I always used to think of it as a smile, but upon reflection, I can see it must be a smirk. I'm sending a message that you, a thinking person, find compelling. I keep trying for nonchalance, but it keeps coming up insouciance. Who wouldn't smirk? Perhaps now you have a better idea of what your teacher meant when she or he said "Wipe that smirk off your face."
Out in the woods, the birch trees grow. And die. And fall down. The best time to cut them down is in the fall or winter, when you don't have anything better to do, and you actually need the wood. Of course, once the leaves have fallen off you can no longer tell which ones are dead, so you mark them first, then cut them down later. Naturally, I did this at the end of the summer. Now that winter has passed, I can be awakened by the...
It was actually one week before Spring, which arrived at about five past nine last Thursday. I was sleeping a sound sleep when suddenly there was a loud clacking. I looked over and shut off the annoying noise made by the alarm of this alarmclock: a stick clacking back and forth between two other sticks, striking first the top one, then the bottom one, over and over.
Quite noisy.
I was so annoyed by being awakened by this surprising and impossible contraption that I woke up from a sound sleep, and woke everyone up to tell them of this weird dream machine. Later in the week, Irene Joe and I were returning down the driveway from one of our walks. I picked up three sticks and demonstrated how it worked to Irene. "Like this," Clackclackclackclackclackclackclackclack, "I said." Joe, further down the path, turned around and said "Alarm clock of your dreams?"
If you must smirk, please be so kind as to smirk insouciantly.
Special note: written in 1997 in a small forest located on a peninsula poking out into part of the Atlantic Ocean, this would now, in 2003, be considered my first weblog posting. But of course we didn't have such a thing back in the olden days, we even had to make up a name for whatever it was, so of course that is why I chose Cöölumn.
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© Copyright 1997-2001 George D. Girton.
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