Could it be? My wife and I were recently walking through an eclectic, historic and popular area of town on the way to one of our favorite eateries. Among the well-dressed suburbanites in this picturesque scene and in an area known for its intellectualism, I stopped briefly as we strolled down the sidewalk on one side of the street.
What caught my attention was a restaurant we passed that had a big sign perched at the top of its entryway, with the words “The Wooden Iron.” At first glance, this name seemed perfectly normal, and kitchy enough to spark a potential diners’ attention. However, upon further consideration, one might come to the conclusion that having a wooden iron is really not possible.
In perhaps taking this too far, a hot stoking iron is by nature made of iron. A hot iron made of wood would simply burn up. Along the same lines, a clothes iron made of wood would produce a lot of challenges, as the wood would smolder and then burn your clothes. Further, if you were to take an iron vitamin made of wood, how could you digest it?
The Wooden Iron. An interesting phrase that poses a lot of ironies.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Where's the Fire?
So here it is. The first post. And the observation that sparked the idea for a blog.
I'm rounding a right corner the other day in the car, attempting to slow down to make the turn - presumably a safe one - and things were going great when I checked the rearview mirror.
As I slowed down more, my brain misfired when I looked back in the mirror one second later, because this time there was a menacing grimace coming from thick lips of a woman with a high stack of hair and Linda Richman-style brown shades shearing through my back windows into my pupils.
Judging from her concentrated grin and tight hunch over the tan steering wheel of her roaring aqua-blue Jaguar, I imagine she wanted me to turn as fast as the natural forces of gravity and mechanical physics would allow. My question to her out loud was "where's the fire crazed lady?"
Maniacal tailgaters - what's up with them and where's the fire?
I'm rounding a right corner the other day in the car, attempting to slow down to make the turn - presumably a safe one - and things were going great when I checked the rearview mirror.
As I slowed down more, my brain misfired when I looked back in the mirror one second later, because this time there was a menacing grimace coming from thick lips of a woman with a high stack of hair and Linda Richman-style brown shades shearing through my back windows into my pupils.
Judging from her concentrated grin and tight hunch over the tan steering wheel of her roaring aqua-blue Jaguar, I imagine she wanted me to turn as fast as the natural forces of gravity and mechanical physics would allow. My question to her out loud was "where's the fire crazed lady?"
Maniacal tailgaters - what's up with them and where's the fire?
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