Ogres have layers, bars have layers
It’s that time of year again. Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras. Carnivale. For some people, “Paczki Day.”
I, for one, enjoy Mardi Gras. Who doesn’t like shiny beads and socially accepted overindulgence? Monks. But we just won’t tell them about it. Anyway, I enjoy the festivities. There is, however, one thing that has always somewhat baffled me about the way people celebrate Fat Tuesday here in southeast Michigan, at least.
Paczkis. The overwhelming obsession with paczkis. I mean…why?
Now don’t hate me. I know that already some of you are going, “Oh my god, you did not just say that,” and others are going, “You didn’t mean it; I forgive you,” and still others are going, “What the hell is a paczki? And how do you even pronounce it?” A paczki, pronounced here as puntj-ki, is a Polish pastry made of fried dough filled with jam. Continue reading
If I were a Bond girl, my cheeky code name would be Cara. Cara Mel. I’d make sly, sultry comments to Bond while carelessly smoking a long, elegant cigarette that won’t have the chance to kill me because I’ll die in a freak accident by getting a mounted sword-fish nose through the stomach while Bond escapes the clutches of some comical, balding, verbose and vaguely effeminate bad guy yet again. “Cara Mel burns when hot, Mr. Bond,” I would say. “Cara Mel lies,” he would reply blithely, the line coming out very suavely if he was Sean Connery, and not nearly as impressively if he was say, Roger Dalton. Sorry, Rog. But it’s true.