On the heels of my last post: I was trying to read Island at the Center of the World on the train today, and this woman was eating Cheetos next to me. Cheetos make a freakish, empty sort of sound when chewed. She ate them slowly, savoring every crinkle, every loud, freakish crunch.
Am I crazy that this made me crazy? I kind of wanted to kill her. But eating on the train is totally gross. Right?
“Although I agreed with some of this much needed attack on the aural sludge that daily floods citizens of this island, I was disappointed when Whitehorn turned her guns on “young people”. The unwanted noise, she suggests, is the fault of youths – and she seems to think that they are all in favour of it. Having been a young person myself I can state with confidence that plenty of them don’t like having to listen to landfill indie when shopping for underpants either. Nor do they enjoy listening to muzak while on hold. Whitehorn has shot at the wrong target. The problem isn’t young people. The problem is morons. Morons of all ages.”—Drowned in sound: can reading and music ever go together? | Books | guardian.co.uk
“Not likely, said Charles Masson, general manager of the 47-year-old restaurant that abandoned its tie-only policy in 2003 (but not its jacket requirement). “There used to be a time when men wore white wigs, too,” he said.”—Lost City: Times Greets Tie-less “21” With Equanimity
Slope Magazine demonstrates the wrong way to word a rejection letter:
Thank you for sending us your work. That you submitted tells us you know your poems were read anonymously—we did not know that it was YOU—and without a stitch of obligation. We think we brought out the best in you**. Indeed, while your work informs the ethos of the forthcoming issue, we do not plan to use it at this time. Should your work find a home elsewhere, please feel free to let us know, so that we might bear witness*** to its continued life, of which we were grateful to take temporary part.
All best to you, and thank you again, THE EDITORS OF SLOPE”
* “Poet”? First of all, that’s a lame word. I’m not a poet; I write poetry. It’s not a way of life, or a calling, or a job. It’s just something you do. I also wash dishes, listen to music and cut my nails curved rather than flat across. “Poet” puts poetry on a level that feeds public stereotypes of the aesthete in his or her garret writing verses against the world. Secondly, thank you for not taking the time to personalize your rejections.
**Not only are you lazy; you’re tone deaf. Is this really what your rejectees want to hear? “Baby, it’s been real. Yes, I’m breaking up with you, but it’s okay; I really think I brought out the best in you.”
***If this is sarcastic, fine. It just means that you, the editors, are dicks. If it’s not sarcastic, though, I’m embarrassed for everybody. People make fun of poets for saying shit like that, and for good reason; it’s poetry, not religion. Actually, it’s neither. It’s writing, plain and simple.
In reply, I’d like to quote Puppet Snoop Dogg:
Me: “Hey Slope, what’s crackalackin. Do you like tapes or CDs?”
“By the side of a murmuring stream
An elegant gentleman sat.
On top of his head was his wig.
On top of his wig was his hat.
On top of his wig was his hat hat hat.
On top of his wig was his hat.”—No Feeling of Falling: Greenstone
“Assembled on the bar stools the other day were a loquacious blond hooker; a cadre of postal workers from the post office across the street, a radio executive in a conservative suit; a Panamanian immigrant nursing his 15th cerveza, and Mario celebrating his release from jail with crisp white wine. There was also a 53-year-old man who shoplifts to order — just tell him what you need and get a 50 percent discount, “Bras, panties, whatever you want.” A few stools down, a tourist from Honolulu was back for his third day. “I just sort of stumbled in,” he said.”—EV Grieve: Credible-enough sources: The Holland Bar is reopening (soon, probably, too)
“Many medieval manuscripts were written on parchment made from animal skin, and NC State Assistant Professor of English Timothy Stinson is working to perfect techniques for extracting and analyzing the DNA contained in these skins with the long-term goal of creating a genetic database that can be used to determine when and where a manuscript was written.”—DNA testing may unlock secrets of medieval manuscripts | Eureka! Science News
Lately I had been feeling like I didn’t really “live” in New York. This week has solved that problem.
Monday: Slumdog Millionaire at BAM. (lame movie, great theater) Tuesday: park hang with my dog Wednesday: Free Los Campesinos Show at Sound Fix + delish polish food Thursday: Fake blood sparkle dance party Friday: missing a lecture at Cabinet, befriending fellow late arrivers, and taking them to watch bocce at Union Hall Saturday: absinthe at The Black Rabbit Sunday: two playoff games and one gigantic meatloaf chez my friend in Crown Heights Monday: walking with the dog to Choice, procuring scones, and proceeding to spend the day lazing about in bliss
The only thing that could have improved this is if the Eagles had gotten their shit together. The Cardinals? Really?
“But what if the old media dies much more quickly? What if a hurricane comes along and obliterates the dunes entirely? Specifically, what if The New York Times goes out of business—like, this May?”—End Times - The Atlantic (January/February 2009)
“I’m not saying that the mystery buyer at B&N (whom I’ve talked with) doesn’t know and love mysteries; what I am saying is that he works within one limited system, while as an independent I have the flexibility and freedom to promote and sell whatever books I like, regardless of system.”—Jim Huang’s blog: Who bucks up whom?
“The afore-mentioned review ran in The Los Angeles Times last January and YOU or The Invention of Memory promptly slid off the map. Or did it? Here’s how it works: email me (correspondence at laurencerand dot com) between now and February 14 to request a free copy of the book (limited to the first 365 requests) and I will send it to you in the mail. Free. You can read it. You can give it away. You can sell it to the Strand or Powell’s, depending on your coast. Whatever. The point is, this is a book that I believe in. I believe it belongs in the world. I believe it belongs with you.”—The Rules of the Game in Paris (and Publishing) « The New You Project: Limited Time, Infinite Possibilities