voice

I confess to a fear. I confess to the fear that I've lost my voice. Not the voice loss associated with laryngitis. Not that sort of -itis. I fear blogitis, the loss of my blogging voice. Having been Tweeting (or tweeting) away like a madman (MadMen? BTW, I await the return of that stellar AMC TV series), I wonder if I've gone to the word-well so often and so distinctly differently that I lost my Kokonuts voice, diminished my Laughorist persona, lessened my serial-comma loving stature, skewed my Kierkegaard-name-dropping identity. Of course, some would argue for marked boundaries of these voices, clear boundaries on the verges of Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and Blogger. Those "some" may be wise to counsel such; or not. Nevertheless, having glanced at the aforementioned words and having heard their cadence and rhythm and substance, or lack therof, I can rest restlessly assured that this voice is still full-throated. Warbling. Wandering.

Carry on.

As you were.

Laugh. Or...

Else.

Oxford Comma Scare

Phew.

There were some alarums [olde spelling] that the Oxford University Press was axing the Oxford comma.

Not so, apparently, as noted in this excellent piece in the Los Angeles Times, which also discusses the Shatner comma, comically.

No serial comma killing this time, though all offices of said staid educational institution should be consistent on such matters.

Serial Comma Commandos of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your [something something; failed to make Marxist pun here].

This Really Happened

Today, while walking within the urban confines of the city of Syracuse:

• I was startled by a jackrabbit right in front of me near the Franklin Square P.O.
• then another one by Onondaga Creek
• stood on a bridge over the creek, a bridge not trespassed by 90% of said city's residents
• while walking, picked up litter: Newport 100s box [they are ubiquitous], a meant-to-be funny, naughty greeting card, a pizza box
• was rewarded warmly by 8th graders exuberantly "graduating" from a city school
• saw a three-legged dog and was spared heartbreak after listening to the owner tell the dog's story
• saw my cat almost kill a sparrow
• I rescued the sparrow
• but the cat had the final say
  
• ultimately
• what -- save sparrows and kill ants?
• I would've shot the woodchuck digging up the backyard but have no weapon
• would I have?
• saw a man with red glasses; he said he has many others, many other colors
  

antie-septic

Weird, isn't it, how -- now that I'm not as avidly hunting them -- I hardly ever see ants on the counter or cabinets. Is it me? Or is it Memorants?

Adios, Bloomsday

Ave atque, farewell goodbye, draw to a cathedral close, this halcyon Joycean protean day nominated in the wordwomb of Bloom, passing by his Ulysses-sired sirens, bleating sheepishly.

Harpyhappy bloomin' Bloomsday!

Harvests of harpy happy blooms of bloomer bombast as we walk the Dublin streets with Leopold Bloom again in our mind in our eyes in our words, avoiding stumbling on the curb the cobblestone of too many consonants, mate.

Today appropriately enough is also the anniversary of the start of this august (no, it's June) and sometimes jejune blog.

Happy 5th Blogger Anniversary to The Laughorist and my nom de web, Pawlie Kokonuts.

out on bail

Were you stopped in your tracks by my last post, titled "arrested"?

Alas, no criminality is implied, inferred, intuited, imagined, initiated, conjured, conjectured, or ANTicipated.

I am out on bail, id est, carried free, unburdened, bucketed, transported away from the heart-stopping goldfinch vision of reality to the quotidian tasks of "this very day," a phrase of Soren Kierkegaard.