ancillary [an-suh-ler-ee or, especially Brit., an-sil–uh-ree] adj. 1. subordinate; subsidiary 2. auxiliary; assisting ∞ n. 3. something that serves in an ancillary capacity: Slides, records, and other ancillaries can be used with the basic textbook
Note: A friend of mine used “ancillary” in a sentence the other day, and I was ashamed to admit, while I determined the word’s meaning from the context, I was unable to accurately define it.
Bat Masterson (1853), Scott Joplin (1868), Dale Carnegie (1888), Lucky Luciano (1897), William F. Buckley Jr. (1925), Paul Tagliabue (1940), Pete Best (1941), Ted Bundy (1946), Dwight Schultz (1947), Linda Tripp (1949), Denise Crosby (1957), Edgar Meyer (1960), Keith Primeau (1971), Colin Hanks (1977), Katherine Heigl (1978)
And, I mean, my guess is all the praise is warranted.
It was, most likely, a great movie. All the inferred twists. All the supposed turns. The brooding guy with the wall of hair was expected to be really good. The rest of the cast seemed superb, especially those dudes who turn into werewolves. The one scene, where the one werewolf is chasing some girl across a backyard toward a house and, then, some guy shows up on the porch, and he starts running at the action, but once he nears the sprinting young lady, he jumps over her while becoming a werewolf himself, taking a defensive stance as if to suggest to the werewolf who was originally in pursuit, “Hey, dude! You can’t eat her. I’m kinda digging on her. You cool with that?”
Maybe he was cool with that. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was annoyed because this guy liked the girl who was running. Maybe he was annoyed because this guy liked every fucking girl he ever saw who was running. Maybe he’d finally had enough. Maybe he decided, right then and there, in that backyard, he was going to take a stand. Maybe something happened after that where the girl miraculously lived. Maybe she tragically died.
I’ll never know. I’ve only seen the previews. And that’s all I’m ever gonna see.
If you don’t like doing something, but you still spend most of every day doing it, then you’re cheating yourself. If you hate your job – and you probably do – and fantasize endlessly about quitting, then you should quit. Quit the job you hate. I’ll say it two more times: Quit the job you hate. Quit the job you hate. → Ted Rall
So, something great someone can do is introduce you to quality music that, otherwise, would’ve never come your way. Two nights ago, I was with an (increasingly) good friend playing Scrabble (the result of which was a draw, no question), drinking red wine and listening to a guy named Joe Pisapia on the stereo. Solid stuff. Try “River Song” and you’ll know I’m right. Like I’m right about this supposedly dubious Scrabble outcome.
→ When reading online news, I rarely smile. However, reading about Oprah ending her “talk show” brought on an ear-to-ear grin that almost hurt my cheeks. OK. Not really. But I am psyched about it.
→ I’m encouraging everyone of you to take a serious look at every book in your house after I read about a London family who’d no clue there was a first edition of Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species sitting in the bathroom for the past 40 years or so.
→ OK. You caught me. I haven’t been updating this blog as much as I used to. I apologize for the fact I’ve recently rediscovered that, after a year hiatus, I’m allowed to have a life. Awww. I can’t stay mad at you folks. I’ll update as much as I can. Thanks for reading. Seriously.