MY GRANDMOTHER AKA “PRINCESS LEIA OF DEPERE (WI)”
Those boys (and that girl) are so sad they grew up before lightsabers.
3 weeks ago - 
5
5
An Etiquette Tip From Emily Post: The FAA Edition
1 month ago - 5
5
OLD TIMEY LITERARY CORRESPONDENCE
WHAT BOOKS DREAM WHEN THEY DREAM
Of being unfairly accused and incarcerated by the Dewey Decimal System.
THIS IS THE HEMINGWAY STYLE BOOK
From which he cribbed the following journalistic Kansas City Star guidelines for writing and dressing:
- understatement, objectivity, absence of sentimentality and an instructive narrator wearing khaki
- few adjectives and adverbs, limited usually to “khaki” or khakily”
- repetition of single words and phrases, incremental repetition (and layering) of khaki items—safari jacket, hat, socks
AMANDA DAVIS
Ten years ago today, writer Amanda Davis died in an airplane accident. If you were not lucky enough to know her, you can read about her here. She is missed and mourned right now as hard as she was on March 14, 2003, and during the weeks and months and years that followed. To the sky that took her, please send news. She is still receiving.
THE BELIEVER MAGAZINE is TEN YEARS OLD!
And its editors are no longer thirteen. Ed Park and Sheila Heti and Nick Hornby and others will be wearing matching Fair Isle sweaters at the anniversary party tonight at Le Poisson Rouge.
LETTER TO MY DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR
Hello! This is Heidi from apartment 34. I was wondering, do you have a cat and if so, do you so totally fail to change its litter box that the smell makes me feel like I live in your apartment, not mine? Or maybe did you die a long time ago? Are you maybe just dead in your apartment? To be fair to you, I’ve always had a vivid sense of smell. I can remember the smells of every one of my boyfriends—one smelled of flan, one of wool sweaters removed in fall from the wooden drawers in which they’d spent the summer, one of Pears soap, one of paisley (imagine what a paisley would smell like—like a father, I guess), one of puffed rice, one of coffee that’s percolated upward through the top of a skull. I once had a confused relationship with a smoker. I kept trying to get a sexual read off of him, but he just smelled like smoke. I deemed him unknowable and broke up with him. I wondered how anyone could fall in love with or want to fuck a smoker. It would be like falling in love with a bar or a restaurant (before the smoking ban) or with the traffic island outside of JFK. And who can eat in a restaurant that smells of bleach? There’s a popular restaurant near my house that stinks like a public swimming pool. I take my food to go. My son also has a strong sense of smell. He notices when I use a different body cream. He says, “you don’t smell like my mom.” This is what the smell of your apartment makes me want to say to my apartment—you don’t smell like my home. This doesn’t smell like my life.
2013 FASHION INTENTIONS
To be poorly pixelated.
