RADIOLAB IS THE COOLEST THING ON THE PLANET. IF YOU DO NOT LISTEN TO RADIOLAB, YOU ARE NOT COOL. LISTEN TO THEIR LATEST EPISODE ON LANGUAGE AND BLOW YOUR NERD LOAD ALL OVER YOUR STACK OF SCIENTIFIC AMERICANS.

Paul Erdős

I know who this remarkable dude is thanks to Radiolab's brilliant recent episode dedicated to numbers, how we perceive quantity, etc. It's really worth listening to, but, then again, so is pretty much every episode of Radiolab ever produced. I'd expand on this, but my mind has momentarily disintegrated.

[WNYC]

"I imagine you've seen quite a few bananafish in your day"

This day last year it was Updike. Today it's Salinger. Who will be next to go? America waits in suspense as its contemporary literary canon dwindles. I'm just kidding. Salinger's not really in the canon. But say what you will about Salinger, I discovered his books at a crucial age, and I guess you could say the eccentric, melodramatic members of the Glass family were sort of like fall-back role models for me; I found their idiosyncrasies comforting and attractive and wildly interesting, and I wanted to be like them, I wanted to emulate them, and I did. So I can't help but think that I have some Salinger in me, that his characters embedded themselves in my developing adolescent psyche, their quirky uncertainties forever to mingle in my subconscious, and in this way I suppose I owe some of myself to Salinger. Not that he would have cared.

Edit: Last night on Talk of the Nation, Sam Tanenhaus credited Salinger with discovering the voice of the Adolescent American in Catcher. He said a bunch of other complimentary things as well, and I thought that was very nice of him.

like mollusks that eat wood

"So: a guy who hates diving meets a guy bored by the Byzantine Empire. Naturally, an academic buddy movie ensues in which two men find that the path to happiness lies in diving and studying the Byzantines. And, along the way, they create an entire new field: Underwater Archaeology."

[This American Life]

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.

This week on our show..

I've been experiencing this cold sweat thing every time I fall asleep lately. I guess that's kind of gross, but I've been feeling honest. I suppose I could blame it on my flannel duvet cover trapping the heat, but I've had this duvet cover for about two months now, and this only started happening recently. The only possible answer is a psychological one. Today, upon spacing out during my English lecture, I racked my brain for possible subconscious catalysts for the cold sweats. I guess there are several things that could be compiling to form one big cold sweat producing ailment, but there is one, definite possibility: Ira Glass' voice. I've been falling asleep to This American Life for the past two weeks or so, since around when the sweats began. Perhaps nasaly Jewish voices aren't as soothing as I'd always assumed. Ugh, perhaps my subconscious is being narrated by the talk radio lovechild of Woody Allen and Lou Reed.

Well, let the troubleshooting begin.

Wait, what's going on?

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?sched=1263