Fluff

Have you ever stopped to listen — really listen — to the fervor with which Village People frontman Victor Willis extols the YMCA’s virtues in the band’s most famous song? That’s how I feel about libraries, to the extent that one of my chief house-hunting criteria was “must be located within walking distance of a

The great birthday flap of 2024 was resolved in Crankenstein’s favor last night, following another of her Houdini-like marital escapes. She returned home at the end of a long and trying day bearing a self-deprecating card, a cake, and a sestina previously written for me. Even for a committed grouch such as myself, it’s hard

Break out the kazoos and confetti, the basement’s starting to resemble a basement again! Our project’s timely completion is a blow to anyone who hoped it might run long, thus affording me time to explore an array of uncomfortably personal topics here later this week: the deafening roar of my biological clock as my 41st

Visions of Bill Murray danced through my head this morning as the resumption of now-familiar drilling and clanging noises kicked off day three of pier-digging.* If things are less cacophonous tomorrow, I might be able to finish my next movie review, but since there was no peace in the valley today this is the best

I’ll elaborate on this later in the week, when I have more time. But for now, try to imagine me not on this puny, wildly insufficient stepladder, but scaling a regular construction ladder on the landing pictured below, straining — my left hand and leg tremoring — to reach a smoke detector at the end

There are people who check in here when I take too long to update Cranky Lesbian, possibly worried — or even hopeful — that Crankenstein finally murdered me.* If you’re one of ’em, hold your horses, a new review is (hopefully) coming this weekend. I’m just (temporarily) up to my ears in bullshit right now

In which I discuss this week’s Botox appointment while testing a new microphone. In previous Crankcasts, my voice sounded lower, and Crankenstein’s higher, than they actually are, and this is more accurate, though I’m still learning how to use it. I considered not posting any of this because it’s embarrassing to me lately when I

“If it hurts just a little/Be glad of it,” Donna Summer suggested in 1982, the year before the disco queen was caught in an enduring scandal that muddles her memory even today. I’m trying to keep that philosophy in mind while preparing to do all manner of things that are going to pack a punch.