Natawurly, proprietress of the CurlyWurlyGurly blog, has issued a challenge to her regular readers. Come to think of it, I guess it’s open to her irregular readers too, which means that I’m obligated to participate. This from the woman who precociously in grade school informed the teacher that “I [didn’t] have my homework because the dog ate my conscience.”  (Fifth grade, I kid you not.)  In a nutshell (preferably a filbert loaded with nutella), the challenge is thus:

“The WORST candy in the history of mankind has to be  ______ .”

courtesy Posteritati

courtesy Posteritati

I won’t lie. I thought about alternate, “clever” ways to subvert the challenge. I thought of the 1968 movie Candy adapted from Terry Southern’s novel; it was a flop even though its pedigree was enviable (inspired by Volatire’s Candide, screenplay by Buck Henry, starring Marlon Brando, Walter Matthau, John Astin (Gomez Addams, swoon), John Huston, James Coburn, Ringo Starr, Charles Aznavour, Richard Burton, and, uhm, former Miss Teen Sweden Ewa Aulin). Despite its flopdom, it was nowhere close to being the worst anything in the history of anything. I thought of Dutch smooth-jazz saxophone goddess Candy Dulfer. I thought of Andy-Warhol’s-Factory-Regular Candy Darling. I thought of CNN correspondent Candy Crowley. And many others. Whatever their flaws, none are so horribly afflicted so as to be even remotely considered to be the worst anything in the history of mankind. So I was doomed to play it straight.

Another blogger immediately responded with circus peanuts, which might have been my choice were it not for the fact that circus peanuts are completely inedible and not fit for consumption, human or otherwise. Ha! They are obviously not candy but some bizarre souveneirs that someone decided are supposed to be eaten. The great P.T. Barnum, circusman extraordinaire, did say that “there’s a sucker born every minute.”  My theory is that circus peanuts are designer packing peanuts.



I first want to point out that there’s a reason the title of this post isn’t “Punny Business.” That reason is that it would be a dreadful title. Some people, however, have neither the restraint nor the better judgement to leave puns in their accustomed milieu: the passing comment or the punchline of a soon-forgotten joke.

As I, and no doubt countless others, have mentioned previously, puns are roundly and routinely criticized as the lowest form of humor; some even speculate that uncontrollable pun-making is a legitimate psychological condition, a disease. I hold no such vendetta with them, but caution that there is a time and a place for puns, as well as a time and a place not for puns. (more…)

I wouldn’t describe myself as a particularly spiritual person, but by the other side of the same token I would neither call myself overly materialistic. With this disclaimer in hand and just as quickly out of my hand, in the company of pigs in pokes and cats out of bags, I want to share a deep, dark secret with you, my devoted, beloved, Dear Reader(s).

Sometimes, in my lowest hours, I know, I just know, gripped in the surety of despair, that possessing a certain item will bring limitless  joy to my poor, impoverished existence. More often than not, the item is the same thing, recurring in my visions and haunting my adumbrant days. What could this most fabulous of objects (apologies to Time Bandits) be, you ask? Some splendiferous jewel? A sportscar so sexy one needs to reenact childbirth in reverse just to get inside it? A housecat who can clean her own litterbox,  run the coffee machine and make fabu martinis? No, none of those. (more…)

Or, as the New Yorker editors would have it, reëngagement. I swear, that’s too stuck up even for me.

Da Vinci Monument phonograph

Anyway, just to liven up the rebooting of pannaceaeae, I thought I’d share some more music. This time around I’m featuring a couple of husky-voiced sirens.


Natawurly is going to tan my hide. First I impinge on her candy fetish with posts about chewing gum and jordan almonds, now I ‘m venturing into her newest territory, books.

I’ve been living a bit of a cloistered life lately and have consequently and uncharacteristically not been haunting bookstores as is my wont. Imagine my surprise then, while waiting for a prescription to be filled today, I wandered over to the “literature” section of the store and saw a completely new phenomenon.

No, I’m not referring to the Twilight books being shelved with normal ones. After all, this is the kind of store where fake books thrive and real books cower at the innermost reaches of the shelves, where a rarity like Brave New World is displayed in the “inspirational” section. I’m talking about a bonafide and –forgive the pun– novel development: the new, improved mass market paperback.


More like a premature autopsy.

Just wanted to inform my Dear, Faithful Reader(s) that I’ll be reanimating pannaceaeae in the next 24–36 hours. Since I don’t know what’s going to happen when I republish (undraft?) the accumulated posts en masse, the forensics lab has recommended that you unsubscribe from the blog for the time being so that your Reader or Blog Surfer (especially WordPress’ own) will not be inadvertently inundated. You may want to mumble a prayer on my behalf as well. Can’t hurt.