blast-o-rama. • issue 076 • 2023-02-19
blast-o-rama.
issue 076 • 2023-02-19
lucky thirteen
Happy Sunday, dear readers.
I recognize that the next few paragraphs are going to place me firmly in Wife Guy™ territory, but hey, I’ll accept it.
Thirteen years ago, I had my first date with the woman who would become my wife, my partner in crime, and best friend, Sam.
Our first date was delayed by two weeks thanks to a record double blizzard here in Baltimore, putting three feet of snow on the ground, and a nice bit of ice on top of that.
But despite that, we had our first date, at the now defunct Hamilton Tavern. I’d gone there on the advice of a friend, who suggested their burger was the best in the area. They weren’t wrong. They also suggested that if my date ordered said burger with the fried egg on top, they were “the one”. They weren’t wrong there either.
I’m not sure when specifically I knew Sam was the one, but one of the first indications came very early.
About two days after our first date, I started having uncontrollable stomach pain, sweating like crazy.
This turned out to be my first bout with Kidney Stones.
Though our relationship was in its very early stages, she still wanted to see me, and check on me. I looked like hell, and felt even worse.
She showed up at the door with a batch of cupcakes she’d made that day, and realizing she forgot to buy some, covered in frosting that she bought at Target, frosting them in the Target parking lot.
They were probably the best cupcakes I ever had. And the first sign of many.
I’m not sure when she’s gonna read this, but let me just put it out there…
…if someone makes you baked goods? You marry them. It works out well.
aw sh%^
I know that Netflix did a whole show about it, but hey, let’s give SWEARING some love this week, as James Parker does for The Atlantic.
Swearing is an art, like everything else. You can overdo it, you can underdo it, and you can do it just right. You can swear at your grandmother, and experience as if for the first time the unholy power of the old words. You can swear at your dog, and he won’t notice. Once, on a beach in California, with electronic beats pinging and bass belching in the air around us, a dreadlocked stranger placed his hands upon my shoulders; gazed deep, deep, deep into my eyes; and said (Northern Irish accent): “I don’t know who y’are … But I focking love ya.” Then we hugged, and he entered my brain chemistry forever.
Check out the full story here.
also from across the web
Other reads I enjoyed this week:
- God Did the World a Favor by Destroying Twitter - WIRED
- ‘Party Down’ Revival: On the Rowdy Set With Paul Rudd, Adam Scott – Rolling Stone
- Cars are rewiring our brains to ignore all the bad stuff about driving - The Verge
- How Teens Recovered From the ‘TikTok Tics’ - The New York Times
- Joe Montana Was Here - ESPN
- At the Oscar Nominees Luncheon, a Crowd in Cruise Control - The New York Times
- The Oral History of Raccacoonie, the Weirdest Universe in ‘Everything Everywhere All At Once’ - Inverse
- A Visit to Ghibli Park, a Miyazaki Theme Park - The New York Times
- Manchester City and the Bruising Battle to Avoid Losing It All - The New York Times
- Forget Milk and Eggs: Supermarkets Are Having a Fire Sale on Data About You – The Markup
- Zelda 2 was Nintendo at its best: unpredictable - Polygon
- Foxconn protests, Covid cases cause chaos inside China factory - Rest of World
- No coach, no agent, no ego: the incredible story of the ‘Lionel Messi of cliff diving’ - The Guardian
- The Postal Service’s ‘Give Up’ Turns 20 - Stereogum
thanks for reading.
Yes. Give Up is twenty. Age comes for us all.
See you in seven!
-Marty