"So all the females know that the exercises are compatible to them."

"You're right, James Franco, it is all about context. For example, if the context of these sentences was an undergraduate art history paper then you would get an A+ and a smiley face. However, these sentences appear in the Wall Street Journal, which is a famous newspaper that relies on the quality of its content to attract readers and advertising dollars. Less quality = less newspapers. So, in the context of writing a terrible op-ed in a newspaper and thus endangering print publications everywhere, you are—how did Jon Stewart so eloquently put it?—hurting America." [Gawker]

Where are the drugs, Chris? I asked him.

"But maybe that's why my woozy, wobbly-footed editor friend was smiling when she stared up at the DJ and made her draconian prediction of a Kindle telling us how to dance instead of the Jersey DJ bumping Top 40 hits all night. Because there's still some esprit de corps amongst book authors, because they still care, because there's still a reason to get crunk. Books might be fucked, but at least they're worth saving. It's not all bad." Gawker gatecrashes the National Book Awards

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.