“Every Beginning is Difficult,” Robert Schiff

Picture postcard.

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The Porky Nolan.

Remember that amazing sandwich recipe I shared the other day?   The one with melted mozzarella and spaghetti sauce over mild Italian sausage?

It works just fine with a pork chop too.



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“The Kiss,” Auguste Rodin, 1896

Bronze.

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A short review of Season 2 of “From” (2023).

“From” Season 2 (2023) wasn’t quite as good as Season 1.  The show borrows so much its obvious inspiration, “Lost” (2004-2010), that it also inherits that program’s central flaw — an overabundance of mysteries that confuse the narrative.

Season 1 was … mostly a self-enclosed, tidy horror tale that was reminiscent of the various iterations of “The Twilight Zone” — waylaid travelers in a mysteriously  inescapable town are stalked by supernatural monsters.  Smaller mysteries were peppered into the plot, and for me those story points were mostly just distracting — but it didn’t detract from my overall enjoyment of the show.

Season 2, however, introduced so many subplot mysteries that the story sometimes became a little difficult to follow.  (Or are they really subplots?  We’re now shown that the monsters of Season 1 are only one element of the supernatural landscape that our protagonists must survive.)

My complaint above should be taken in context, though — “From” is still the scariest show on television.  It’s got some really good writing and some terrific characters, with a few standout actors that hit a home run every time they’re onscreen.  One is David Alpay as a the group’s hilarious, antisocial genius; another is Scott McCord as a gentle giant with the mind of an eight-year-old boy.

“From” is still an amazing watch.  The second season wasn’t perfect, but it was still great.  It remains the show that I am surprised that so few people are talking about.



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“Come.  And be my baby.”

Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow
But others say we’ve got a week or two
The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror
And you sit wondering
What you’re gonna do.
I got it.
Come.  And be my baby.

— excerpt from Maya Angelou’s “Come and Be My Baby”



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goddam it they out to call them TRIP-flops not flip-flops

i should sue

and i can’t call it a sports injury if i was lurching across the kitchen for a second pork chop, god damn



“Forest Glade, Crimea,” Arkhip Kuindzhi, 1887

Oil on paper mounted on cardboard.

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You poly understand.

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Untitled photo by Anne Brigman, circa 1910

Platinum print, mounted on card.

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The Nolan Italiana.

Fried mild Italian sausage, melted mozzarella, and spaghetti sauce, served on toast.



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Nurse Your Favorite Heresies in Whispers