I was talking to Forgottenman about Zoe’s latest antics which I won’t bore you with, but he referred me to this old Saturday Night Live sketch. Ha!
https://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/puppy-uppers-doggie-downers/3004208
These human libraries have since popped up all over the world. See more HERE.
and thanks to Craig Georgeson for bringing this to our attention on Facebook.
Thanks, Bethany Putnam, for your lovely writeup of the San Juan Cosala Women’s Invitational Retablo show in the Guadalajara Reporter!! The show will remain up for two more weeks. You can view it from 10 to 2 or 4 to 8 Tuesday through Saturday at Isidro’s gallery 1/2 block west of Viva Mexico on Porfirio Diaz in San Juan Cosala. That is the street that runs along the lake side of the plaza.
I can’t resist sharing my favorite Dr. Seuss Poem about a fork in the road:
“The Zoad In The Road”
by Dr. Seuss
Did I ever tell you about the young Zoad?
Who came to a sign at the fork of the road?
He looked one way and the other way too –
the Zoad had to make up his mind what to do.
Well, the Zoad scratched his head, and his chin, and his pants.
And he said to himself, “I’ll be taking a chance.
If I go to Place One, that place may be hot
So how will I know if I like it or not.
On the other hand, though, I’ll feel such a fool
If I go to Place Two and find it’s too cool
In that case I may catch a chill and turn blue.
So Place One may be best and not Place Two.
Play safe,” cried the Zoad, “I’ll play safe, I’m no dunce.
I’ll simply start off to both places at once.”
And that’s how the Zoad who would not take a chance
Went no place at all with a split in his pants.
All of Ben Dykstra!!!
When Dwight Roth of Rothpoetry commented on this old post it caused me to read it again and I laughed so hard that I had to reblog it again. Who can’t use a good laugh? Thanks, Dwight, for bringing it to mind again. (Be sure to read the part about the church bulletin snafus…the part about dad is just an intro to it.)
Every region has its own vernacular and sometimes we are not aware of how familiar terms of our childhood might be to others. My dad was a farmer/rancher in South Dakota where a low-lying field or land near a river was called a “bottom.” My dad loved a good joke, but not so much when it was on him; thus, while we laughed until we were ill, he never cracked a smile as he read the following news in The Murdo Coyote, our local small-town newspaper: “The men are busy this week moving dirt on Ben Dykstra’s bottom.”
One local wit was heard to observe that his bottom must be a sizeable one to afford that amount of activity for that length of time.
Another small town diversion, other than the local newspaper, was the church bulletin. Typed and mimeographed by a volunteer before the age of the…
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