Academia

givin' ends to your friends and it felt stupendous

A fairly accurate portrait of the usual state of our home.

You don't pull on Superman's cape, you don't spit into the wind

Fire in the building, trapped in my bedroom with the Loose Goose, Dan, and TDW, talking to firemen from the window, thinking about the wall of black smoke hovering outside the front door, debating the fate of our apartment, and wondering if we'd have to ride down on the fire department's extremely competent-looking ladder. Yet this one went to Man, in the ongoing battle between Man and Flaming Mattresses In the Hallway, and we were ultimately a tinge disappointed when we were saved the decidedly thrilling looking ladder-ride, and merely escorted down the stairwell by a couple of anonymous, oxygen-masked, flame-resistant figures who illuminated the charred, damp, cavernous stairwell with the blue lights of their masks, and breathed in and out conspicuously, like Darth Vader. Those who gripped the railing noticed how warm it was, and when we were outside, we realized our fingertips were coated in ash.

So that was mighty exciting. Before that happened this evening was just any other evening. Lucy was having a date in the kitchen, paper-writing was creeping around the corner, and I was just sitting zombielike behind my desk, drinking Red Bull and and eating Brazilian nuts! So how about that!

Also, British rap? What?

Everybody loves Lucy

(Stills from Lucy's bat mitzvah)
I asked Shaun to wear his yellow jumper so that, paired with my yellow dress, we might produce some kind of Donny & Marie effect. Did it work? Anyway, this is us practicing for our Christmas card photo shoot.
Tell me this doesn't look like the best feminist-themed bat mitzvah/birthday party for Jeff Goldblum you've ever seen. I dare you.
Misogynists.
Too much feminism?
Just enough!


Ridhima & Lucy doppelganger
George & Lucy measuring who, between the two of them, is more fierce.
Needs a poo.

"There but for the grace of God, goes God."

While we're on the subject..

Eclipse

Alright. It's been three days now. Time* to stop celebrating Lucy's birthday and start writing papers.

*No coincidence we bid farewell to daylight savings today. Hello darkness.

Fresh pair of dentures!

Some photos from Octobre..

Prelude to a Sneeze

I'm kidding

Paige would like to extend her thanks to the "pro surfers" who helped themselves to all the peanut butter and jelly in her kitchen last night. You guys are awesome!!1!

GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!

Striped cashmere sweaters. Mmm. Just saying that phrase aloud tickles what little soul I can muster up, and soothes me in the most electrifying yet comforting of ways. Cashmere sweaters by themselves are, seemingly, unbeatable, but when you add stripes to the mix, you're really onto something eh.

Why is it that the longer I study literature the less capable I feel of writing anything? I can't even construct my thoughts, in my brain, let alone on paper. Computer. What's the protocol for that? What does, 'in writing,' really entail anymore?

So yeah, there's that. There's also this low, chugging beat, in about the same pitch as a pair of maracas coming from somewhere in this room, or flat, or building, so there could be an explanation for that, or I could just be going fucking crazy. The guy in the flat across from mine has been sat at his desk reading under the penetrating glow of a very sturdy-looking desk lamp for.. hours I'd say at this point, and I'd just like to say, in the exceptionally microscopic chance that he might fall fatefully at the hands of this clusterfuck of a blog and actually have the attention span to power through this much of an entry, Way to go. That appears to be fairly torturous. Just in case that doesn't exactly pay off (eh), i.e. reflect in the outcome of that which you are (I'm presuming) preparing for, please accept my sentiment as.. some sort of consolation; you fill me with pride, to be of the (almost!) same make as you, sir. But also, consider this a big 'YOU ARE APPRECIATED', on behalf of mankind, for being the one to remind us why it's ALWAYS BETTER TO STUDY IN BED DAMN IT. Damn, you look uncomfortable! And while I'm momentarily stepping over that wall, Shaun, if you're out there: take pride in the yellow jumper. Don't keep it locked away in the darkness of your wardrobe. Set that jumper free. But, most importantly: wear the sweater--don't let it wear you. If you don't think you're capable of this, you should probably give it to me, because I would gladly take it off your hands. I could give you this awesome bedside table from Ikea that I just have lying around if you want something in exchange. I'd be cool with that.

So I spent the majority of my evening exploring previously uncharted regions of the Wu Tang catalogue, because obviously there are no more productive options for my time when I have a presentation on Impressionism to prepare, and I stumbled upon this episode of Fresh Air on which the guest is the RZA. It's worth listening to at least the introduction just to hear Terry Gross say "Old Dirty Bastard". Of course, this is (was, 2005) just a precursor to the inevitable marriage (allying) of the rap community and the Upper Class Left Wing Idealists (see profile of MF Doom by Ta-Nehisi Coates in a recent issue of the New Yorker that I forgot to bring to light because I've been busy being fucking awesome). It just makes so much sense. When that day comes, the planets will align. Or maybe vice versa. Either way, some of us are fucked, and some of us, will taste that righteous taste. Ever hear that song, "What's Gonna Happen On the Eighth Day?" by Screamin' Jay? Yeah, it'll be sort of like that, but with a more subdued enthusiasm, and more bass. I'd actually like to hear--and I've been thinking about this for awhile now--more sampling of talk-radio on rap albums. Apparently they're not entirely convinced over at Gawker (what else is new?):


So yeah, almost done, but I would just like to mention the fact that at the end of a long night, I've come to the conclusion that I really just don't think I could marry a man who wasn't well versed enough with the Tao of the Wu to wax lyrical about them at any given moment. Shit's just too important. Sorry dudes of the world.

And the search for a husband continues.

Come one, come all

Lucy Stewart's birthday party, this Thursday, our digs. With special appearance by Jeff Goldblum.

About you with your blue winter coat on

I found these--









Senior year. Jared Radin. The Morristown Beard English Dept., plus one Chris Finn.

I asked the Lord, help me find the way

Well! It's Friday, it's sunny I have a fifty-inch portrait of David Bowie hanging above my living room couch a la Shaun Douglas, a wonderful piece of art that my best friend sent me, vaseline for my cracked lips, my first paper under my belt, and I'm raging tonight. The promised land.

Nerd. Nerd!

These boots were made for staying the fuck away from normal people

"We needed the $3k barrier to entry. NEEDED. But thanks to bootleggers and overly ambitious ladies for whom 'holiday clothing' was invented, those lovely dames who think lace 'goes with' sequins, confident daughters who received exactly the right amount of love from their parents and 'love their job,' 'look good in hats' and wear hosiery in red and green, thanks to them and their SENSE OF ADVENTURE I am experiencing something I was wholly unprepared for: THIGH-HIGH BOOT MUFFIN TOP."

Mary HK Choi should have a talk with 60% of the hoes in my Lit class.

Giles Deacon S/S '10

Stella McCartney S/S '10