The Olympics, which are pretty much the apex of Big Everything/Majoritarian Culture, are always interesting as an exercise in exposing the just how provincial our (American/New York-centric) media are. Even though pretty much everything served up east of Graham Ave is talked about like it’s shat directly into GG Allin’s hands and thrown into the face of flyover country, dimes to dollars all we are going to see today is a range of responses that start at snickering and end at SO WERD. We’re watching the equivalent of an F-150 commercial coming out of Sochi but the degree of Otherness-gaping we’re going to get will sound like a fourteen year-old doing their semester abroad in Paris.
I need a truck to haul all my trucks in
Are Macklesmores, blogs, and the weather still relevant?
I started to pick up some hobbies, primarily as blog fodder: taming bears, juggling fire, collecting silly pants. I figured these skills would come in handy when the time came to join the circus, as it was becoming increasingly apparent to me that the master’s program I was about to finish would leave me unemployable until I got a Ph.D., and the “until” was pretty contingent on things like “not suffering a breakdown” and “getting in somewhere.” I decided to become a professional DVD watcher in the interim, but I still spent a lot of time thinking about religion and the state and my hair.
(Source: dead-lesbian, via particleb0red)
Another gem from the Shitties
Celebrate William S. Burroughs’ 100th Birthday With 12 Bullets Shot at a Picture of His Wife
If Burroughs were alive today, his wife would still be dead. Because he shot her.
What do YOU talk about in your Misandrist Book Club?
But almost as long as there has been heroin in the United States, New York City has been its hub.
There is literally nothing New York won’t try to claim ownership of.
You probably don’t remember New York magazine saying that the East Village was all out of smack in 1998. Or Ann Marlowe’s tales of yuppie addiction. Or the Village Voice cover story in 2002 about heroin and heartache in Tompkins Square Park. We own it, man.
Who wants to go to the mall and get a friday night Orange Julius?