Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
my hair, like everything else, is bigger in texas.
dallas love airport has three security lanes - casual traveler, with a silhouette of a cowboy riding a horse, but all slow-like; expert traveler, with a cowboy with a lasso; and families and passengers needing assistance, with a stagecoach. oh, texas. i tried really hard to look casual, like the casual traveler i am.
then, as you walk through security, there's a world map in the floor tile. JUST like in carmen sandiego. remember how hard that game was? i feel like that part was really difficult to win.
"mom! it said to put on my mask first!"
- 4-year-old kid on the plane, who is a good listener.
"how do you expect me to grow if you won't let me blow?"
- rachel, in "the one where eddie won't leave." i LOVE this episode, where the girls feel all empowered by the book about being your own windkeeper. then they fight.
h: What are you up to?
b: well, moving today!
h: OH my god. That sounds horrible. What are you doing online then?
b: um, well...
okay, fine. here are the articles that the guy ahead of me and across the aisle was reading. i didn't think it was okay to ask him for his magazine, so i'll be reading them when i have time and internet again.
the pursuit of teen girl purity, about those purity balls.
subsidized in the city, about people who still take money from their parents.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
May I conclude, as I began, by thanking your reviewer for his very courteous and interesting review, but may I tell him that though he did not, for reasons best known to himself, call me a highbrow, there is no name in the world that I prefer? I ask nothing better than that all reviewers, for ever, and everywhere, should call me a highbrow. I will do my best to oblige them. If they like to add Bloomsbury, W.C.1, that is the correct postal address, and my telephone number is in the Directory. But if your reviewer, or any other reviewer, dares hint that I live in South Kensington, I will sue him for libel. If any human being, man, woman, dog, cat or half–crushed worm dares call me “middlebrow” I will take my pen and stab him, dead. Yours etc.,Virginia Woolf.
The writer seems constrained, not by his own free will but by some powerful and unscrupulous tyrant who has him in thrall, to provide a plot, to provide comedy, tragedy, love interest, and an air of probability embalming the whole so impeccable that if all his figures were to come to life they would find themselves dressed down to the last button of their coats in the fashion of the hour. The tyrant is obeyed; the novel is done to a turn. But sometimes, more and more often as time goes by, we suspect a momentary doubt, a spasm of rebellion, as the pages fill themselves in the customary way. Is life like this? Must novels be like this?
Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being “like this”. Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions—trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street tailors would have it. Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Like most people, I tend to use the language of addiction casually, as in, “I can’t wait for the new season of ‘America’s Next Top Model’ to start — I’m totally going through withdrawal.” And when talking about how immersed I became in my online life, I’m tempted to use this language because it provides such handy metaphors. It’s easy to compare the initial thrill of evoking an immediate response to a blog post to the rush of getting high, and the diminishing thrills to the process of becoming inured to a drug’s effects. The metaphor is so exact, in fact, that maybe it isn’t a metaphor at all.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
those weren't actually from that episode. they're from the episode i'm watching now. anyway, in honor of david schwimmer, studs terkel, and coincidence, here are two things that just happened related to race.monica: but it's okay. it's okay, it's okay, because, you know, it was like a casual, breezy message. it was breezy! oh God, what if it wasn't breezy?phoebe: how could it not be breezy? no, because you're in such a breezy place....[on message] "... so, let me know. or don't, whatever. i'm breezy!"joey: hey, you can't say you're breezy! that totally negates the breezy!