Archive for the ‘Really Awesome Insults’ Category

Ha!

September 10, 2012

Did Ariel Levy just tell Naomi Wolf she has a first world white girl problem? I believe she did!

“This epiphany was prompted by a ‘medical crisis,’ Wolf explains, after which she ‘had a thought-provoking, revelatory experience that suggested a possible crucial relationship of the vagina to female consciousness itself.’ It came at a time when she felt ’emotionally and sexually happy, intellectually excited, and newly in love,’ and yet she ‘started to realize that something was becoming terribly wrong.’  Her ‘clitoral orgasms were as strong and pleasurable as ever,’ and yet ‘I realized one day, as I gazed out on the treetops outside the bedroom of our little cottage upstate, that the usual postcoital rush of a sense of vitality infusing the world, of delight with myself and with all around me, and of creative energy rushing through everything alive, was no longer following the physical pleasure.’  This may sound like a high class problem to you.  For Wolf, it was ‘like a horror movie.'”

~ From Ariel Levy’s review of Wolf’s Vagina: A New Biography in last week’s New Yorker

And yes, Ariel, to me, it kinda sounds like a high class problem.

This Book is Fucking Amazing

August 1, 2012

“Just then a young girl stopped us and invited us to partake of her.  My friend asked at once: ‘How much?’

She mentioned a sum.  ‘That’s too much,’ he said.  She came down.  Still he shook his head.

‘Come,’ she said finally, with a weary expression on her sallow face.  ‘I don’t want any money.  I just want you.’

Whereupon he took his watch out and said: ‘It’s too late.  Sorry, some other day, if you don’t mind.’  And taking me by the arm he started to move off.  She caught and held me.

‘For nothing,’ she repeated with despair in her deep-sunk eyes.  See, I’m rich.’  She opened her purse and pulled out a roll of bills.  Rolls of bills mean nothing much in France, but indeed she might have been rich.  She was well dressed, I noticed.  Nothing extravagant, but certainly not poorly.  Her whole body trembled as if in fever.  And the tremors coursed through her hand and communicated themselves to me.

My friend tore me away.  As we hastened on, I looked back and saw her standing where we had left her, her hands covering her face.

‘Why did you do that?’ I asked.  The action of my new acquaintance had disgusted me.  He had meant only to tease her.

‘I wanted to see how far down she would come.  I’ve had them come down to two francs, but never to nothing.  But her case can’t count because she wasn’t after money.  She’s a pathological case.'”

–– Guy Endore, The Werewolf of Paris

All Recent Posts Have Been of Eerily Similar Lengths

May 16, 2012

From the New Books section of Harper’s Magazine, this one authored by Joshua Cohen and regarding Nabokov’s Selected Poems;

“Wilson is Edmund, of course, who presumed to question Nabokov’s faithful but faithfully unreadable translation of Eugene Onegin.  Levin, Harry, was a Harvard comparative-literature professor so awed by Nabokov’s alighting in Cambridge that he later plucked him from the butterfly cabinet of the zoology department and pinned him as a humanities professor.  In gratitude, Nabokov once spent an entire evening expounding on the life and work of a nineteenth-century novelist he’d just invented, only because he knew Levin would never admit he hadn’t read him.”

Everybody’s Being Funny

April 6, 2012

ID: OMG!  Guess who checked me out on my way to the subway from work?

Boyfriend: … I don’t like this story.

ID: Owen Wilson!

Boyfriend: Really?  Wow.

ID: He was riding a bike the wrong way down a street and not wearing a helmet.

Boyfriend: Well, that makes sense, because we all know he wants to die.

So true.

Chag sameach, darlings!

Random Thoughts: Sunday Blues Edition

March 11, 2012

1. I resent the nice weather for making me feel bad about doing nothing today.

2. A good insult to someone you’ve recently met would be: “I wish I could write off my impression of you as a douche bag as an  uneducated judgment on my part, but unfortunately, I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

3. If suicide is cowardly, why, when someone manages to do it, do they call him/her “successful”?

Fuck Pictures

March 2, 2012

I have never been a huge Thought Catalog fan, though I may be changing my tune after this article on why Pinterest sucks.

An excerpt from the piece by Brian Donovan:

“Pinterest, for those of you who never left the chip bowl, is Facebook without the faces. It traffics in pictures, not of one’s self, but of what you find interesting in that moment: perhaps a clever way to arrange bathroom shelves, or an irresistible preparation of asparagus, or, as of this morning, 75,000 pictures of Ryan Gosling. It really is nothing more than that: lots and lots of images, and people are going nuts over it. A few weeks ago, Pinterest became the fastest stand-alone site to reach 10 million visitors in a month. Which confirms one thing and thing only: America will do anything to avoid having to read.

“Pinterest is not Pinteresting. It’s not Pinjoyable or Pintillating, and honestly, I have no idea how it’s even Pinpassable as Pintertainment. It’s literally the least amount of information that can be put in front of you and still make you feel like you’re looking at something. You admire a photo, re-post it if you like, and if you’re feeling particularly frisky, clink on it to see if it links to a recipe or design idea. That’s it. Basically, imagine going to a museum that’s been curated by someone’s hip aunt using magazines and Hallmark cards as her only resource, and you’ve been to Pinterest.”

And here is the link to the whole piece.  My link function on this site hasn’t been working for a while (definitely my fault and not WordPress’), but if you are too lazy to just cut and paste the below, you must be a Pinterest fan.

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/pinterest-the-depths-we-will-go-to-not-read/

 

New Trends

February 24, 2012

Aside from “writing about people who live alone,” “kids wax existential about love” seems to be another big one.

I think the best is the last one. How does this kid know that sometimes wives look like trucks!?

Cheer Up, Charlie

February 16, 2012

So yesterday was weird –– got even weirder when I got home, made myself a whisky ginger ale, started munching on cold buttered popcorn, and realized I had written “Tay Sachs” on my hand as a reminder –– but today seems to have gotten a wee bit better, as I am off to Miami, my second home, just in time for something called KITE DAY!

Okay, so maybe it would be cooler in India, but I just don't have that kind of dough right now.

I am feeling incredibly twee right now posting this, as if I’m a New York magazine writer who keeps a blog about her hipster husband and their precious dinner parties, or a Mormon print press designer from San Francisco who blogs about DIY confetti.  Deep sigh… that bitchy aside made me feel a LOT better.

My Boss Can Be Meaaaaaaaan

September 12, 2011

So I’m cleaning out my office and I find a draft of an email that my boss may or may not have sent.  The context makes it pretty clear what’s going on: Cousin emailed asking for a family tree, boss doesn’t like the cunt.  (This may be a fairly inappropriate thing to do, but my boss always says he “has no secrets,” and as this little policy of his causes great distress in MY life, I think it’s actually justified.  Generously edited for content and to protect the identities of those mentioned.)

To [presumably] a cousin:

Dear —–,
It is so odd to hear from you as you showed so little interest in my mother after my father’s death, and even in my father when he was alive, despite years of attention he gave his sister –– your mother –– that I was dumbfounded.  Perhaps age has made you think of family, but I don’t at all mind saying that both my mother and father were very hurt by what you probably never gave a thought to i.e. family [awkward wording.]

Also during my 20 years running —- in London, you must have been in London sometimes –– I was in Cambridge only once and saw you with my daughter–– and during all those times in London you made no effort whatsoever to see me and my daughter.

Never mind, live moves on.  [sic]

Regarding your request regarding the —– family tree, there is no such thing.  There is a —– family tree, but that’s not your family; that’s my mother’s side.  And as you weren’t very interested in the —— until apparently just now, you could hardly be interested in the ——.  Having said the above, I did some extraordinary research into the —— and know a whole lot.  I went to Brazil to track down those Luxenburgers who escaped there and went to Grevenmacher to visit your mother’s relatives there; I did this several times and am in touch with them.  I went to Bossum for family reunions which take place every five years, and on and on…

So I know a great deal including other connections that —— and —— had with people here in New York.  Undso Weiter [sic].  Your inquiry was as brief and as short I remember you being, you and —- having no family feeling whatsoever.  There’s not even an inquiry in your letter after all these years about how anyone is.  

I’m sure you’re prospering.  The few times I met you I could see that [w]as all you were interested in [sic].  I also missed any sign of your interest in a cultural life, just real estate and making money. 

You thoroughly deserve this letter.  What could you expect from the perfunctory letter you sent after all these years?  You don’t even deserve this response.  

However, if you have any particular questions, since I spent so much time informing myself of our background and what they all went through, I will of course answer you.

 

Reluctantly Admiring

January 19, 2011

I never was a big Marilyn Monroe fan, as I didn’t think she’d done anything all at interesting aside from be voluptuous, but the more I read about her, the more smitten I am.

“Even though I was born [in Los Angeles], I still can’t think of one good thing to say about it.  If I close my eyes and picture LA, all I see is one big varicose vein.” 

~From “The Beautiful Child,” published in the book Music for Chameleons by Truman Capote