Thank God for CraigsList...

nude model to pose with fish for tomorrow evening (tuesday)
Reply to: gigs-114378334@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-11-28, 10:07PM EST

model needed to pose with three foot fish for ongoing project for a published book. Established artist and assistant (female) are shooting tomorrow, should only take 1/2 hour. (Fish is fresh from market in the morning.) Looking for all sorts of women. Please email for more info.

* this is in or around chelsea
* no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
* Compensation: $30

114378334

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Zee Fake Tree

Duty follows gluttony, and for the first time in the Wheatley family household, the eight-foot tall artificial arboreal delight was erected the day after Thanksgiving. I hauled it up from its cardboard casket in the basement, each piece at a time, snipped the rope wrapping it like a giant green joint, stacked them, and fluffed the "branches." That all this happened while I was in my boxers, my brother typed away on a keyboard, my mother washed dishes and my father watched Jerry Springer reminded me even more that Christmas is to arrive soon.

The Elevator Ate My Wife

Daniel Gelding made a concerted effort to stop, pouring out bottles of bleach and Windex and reducing his arsenal of paper towels, disinfectant wipes, air fresheners and wood polish twofold. He did the dishes only once every three days and used the Sears-bought washer instead of the scrub method. Daniel's fingers became less coarse and dry and returned to the more suitable form of the hands he had before things got all mucked up, back when he was a respected tailor and a decent husband, a lover of museums and unscented candles. Then an elevator cable snaps and your wife drops with it, and in what can be explained as a horrible turn of events you develop tremors and the skill with which you once were a master now you were a convulsing pin-poking threat. He retreated and started cleaning. And Daniel was going to stop.

Why does fossilized dung always have to tell the story?

Dinosaurs may have eaten grass (AP)

Scene outside my window, 3:39 p.m.

The boyfriend was obviously fresh from school, still wearing his backpack, and raging at Olive, the girl who looked like a boy. She had a military buzz-cut that should have been covered by the pink toboggan the boyfriend flailed about. The customers in the pizza parlor were aware of this scene.

"How could you do this to me?" he screamed at her, in her face, as she sobbed and wobbled. He's Italian. He has the accent. "All I wanted to do was get a bite to eat! You can't even go inside this restaurant and get a soda. No, you need alcohol. The girl I was on the phone with last night would have gone. But look at her."

She continued to cry and stagger and was unable to respond. Making her way to a nearby stoop, she aimed her ass for the steps but missed and crumbled to the ground. A passerby offered her help which she refused.

"Nineteen years old," the boyfriend said and gave her the pink toboggan. "And your life is done. How could you do this in two hours? Look at you. Your life is done."

Olive got up and followed him like a sheepish gimp, a puttering jalopy. He told her she loved drama, she loved problems. Olive was happy only when she was sad. Two blocks away I still hear them and she's sitting down again, her pink head resting between her two knobby knees.

David Carr makes an excellent argument for practicing restraint and establishing some sort of poise in blogging. For too many, condescension and finger-pointing is the only way to make a mark. He questions the ethics and architecture of it all.

Find it here.