Following the Mahatma Gandhi memorial lecture on Thursdayevening, Jane had ingested fifteen White Castle chesseburgers and a chocolate shake, so the first thing she did Friday morning was pump a chunky into the mote.
A greatsong by the very underrated Psychedelic Folk band Love
At my house Ive got no shackles
You can come and look if you want to
In the halls youll see the mantles
Where the light shines dim all around you
And the streets are paved with gold and if
Someone asks you, you can call my name
Fogey/fogy /fougi/ sl. (early 18C+, orig. Scot) old-fashioned, stuck-in-the mud.
Person with old fashioned ideas which he is unwilling to change: Come to the disco and stop being such an old fogey!
You think me an old fogeyand an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O’Connel’s time. I remember the famine. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O’Connel did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things. (James Joyce, Ulysses. Penguin Books,1992. p. 38)