Friday, July 18, 2008

I love Louise Rennison and would marry her if I could. In lieu of that, I will do the next best thing and continue to read her books about Georgia Nicolson.

Here is an excerpt from the newest one, "Stop in the Name of Pants!":

I said, "Oh yes, it was brillopads, we made instruments out of dried beans and Herr Kamyer did impressions of crap stuff with his hands that no one could get except Jas. And as a piece de resistance I fell in a pond and was attacked by great toasted newts."

Henceforth, if I like something, I'm going to say it's brillopads.

Additionally, I am going to start referring to both of my siblings this way:

As I got to the hall I heard the front door being kicked. Oh good, it was my delightful little sister. "Gingey, Gingey, let me in! Let me in, poo sister."

I know that Megan and Jennifer will adore being called my poo sisters.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

I'd completely forgotten about this, but I found it while looking for a song that my old pal and co-worker, Tom, wrote for me years ago.

You know all those question lists that your e-mail contacts keep sending you? I wrote one of my own eight years ago, and here it is.

What's the best birthday gift you ever got?

Oh really? I suppose you think you're easy to buy for?

Does this dress make me look fat?

Why do fools fall in love?

Who has seen the wind? (Hint: Neither you nor I.)

Where were you last night? I tried to call!

Do you hear what I hear?

Will you get the door?

What's wrong with this damn computer?

Where is that large automobile?

I see dead people. How about you?

Paper or plastic?

What do you mean, you forgot?

How could you forget?

Didn't I remind you six times?

Are we there yet?

Well, then, how much farther is it?

Did you feed the dog?

Do you think athletes really do "come to play," or do they have other motives?

Who wants to marry a multimillionaire? (Warning: trick question.)

Did the butler really do it, or was he framed by the gardener?

Would you mind moving? I can't see the TV.

Do you think money grows on trees, or something?

Special Whitney Houston bonus section: Where do broken hearts go?

How will I know?

Didn't we almost have it all?


Is the truth really out there?

Do you care for some fresh-ground pepper?

Will you still love me tomorrow?

Why does John Grisham hate lawyers? Doesn't that seem weird?

Do you want fries with that?

What's love got to do with it?

What's love but a second-hand emotion?

Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?

Is that your final answer?

Kip and I went to Fargo Monday to attend Terry's funeral.

I think it was a sendoff that Terry would have appreciated. We arrived in time for the visitation and prayer service Monday evening; when it was over, a bunch of Terry's former (and current) reporters repaired to the Old Broadway for, as my old pal Pat put it, our own wake for Terry.

We sat around for a few hours telling Terry stories. The only thing missing was Terry. He would have been in his element, sitting around bullshitting with a bunch of journalists.

When the topic turned to his famous "goddamn" notes -- which, as my former co-worker Dave pointed out, usually started out benign and quickly turned belligerent -- I suggested that we all raise our glasses to Terry and give him a hearty "Goddamn!" So we did.

I thought I knew Terry well, but I learned a lot about him from listening to people talk about him at the prayer service (and from observing the number of people who came to his funeral, which looked like about 600). The adjective that came up over and over was "big-hearted."

And he was. I don't think I've ever known anyone who was so kind and so genuinely interested in other people. It's not only what made him a good journalist, but a really good friend.

He was a good man. I am proud to have been one of the countless journalists who had Terry as a mentor, and even more proud to have been able to call him my friend.

The world will be a much less colorful and much poorer place without Terry in it. As my old friend and co-worker Jack Zaleski said, in a column last weekend and in his eulogy yesterday, and which I will now plagiarize: Godspeed, my friend.

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