If you’ve been reading about the recent protests* at Yale University and found yourself thinking, “Why are these coddled Ivy League students getting their hyperliberal microaggression panties in a bunch over Halloween costumes?” I commend Connor Friedersdorf’s recent piece in the Atlantic, “The New Intolerance of Student Activism,” to you.
I was browsing the archives of the inestimable Cheri Lucas Rowlands, and paused on this post of “found poetry” — poems made of unedited phrases from her unpublished draft posts. I’ve had poetry on the brain and thought I’d give it a whirl to see what could be learned, using her same rules.
Tonight, we saw Billy Joel perform — his 20th sold-out show in a row — at Madison Square Garden. Itzhak fricking Perlman came out to play on several songs, and rocked the shit out of the fiddle bits in “Downeaster Alexa,” and possibly the beautifully plaintive tone he pulls out of his instrument made me tear up a little.
“When it was time to write, and he took his pen in his hand, he never thought of consequences; he thought of style. I wonder why I ever bothered with sex, he thought; there’s nothing in this breathing world so gratifying as an artfully placed semicolon.”
– Hilary Mantel, A Place of Greater Safety
It’s two-thirty in the morning. I’d like to be sleeping. Instead, I’m propped up on a corner of the sofa, bleeding like a stuck pig and trying not to whimper audibly as I wait for this horse-tranquilizing doze of Advil to quell the menstrual cramps that feel like a dozen animated claw hammers trying to escape my uterus from within. I’m tired, and I’m cranky, and it hurts, and this sucks.
But I’m alive.
“How was Long Island?”
“It was picturesque, like a postcard. No one was screaming. There was very little garbage.”
From a Craigslist – Amsterdam apartment listing: “Unfurnished and immediately available very spacious, well laid out and very well maintained double-down house of about 96m², situated in a beautiful location at Kerkstraat in the center between the Utrechtsestraat and the Amstel.”
So, it’s a two-between apartment between two pieces of fried chicken? They’re smoking some good shit over there.
As I was walking home from the gym this afternoon, a pair of women walking just ahead was having an animated, angry conversation. Quoth woman-on-the-left:
“I got her the fucking golf balls; I don’t know what else she wants.”
Which led me to wonder: what more does she want? Some ideas:
Americans, demand better of your media.
Here is an actual thing that an actual person said on television today, in reference to the Charlie Hebdo attack:
Bream wondered how police would be able to identify “bad guys” if they had ski masks and couldn’t “even know what color,” what “the tone of their skin was?”