Every frat brother needs a seashell necklace, but not everyone can afford one. Try spray-painting a few conchiglie pasta shells white and threading them with an old shoelace for a neat alternative that won't strain your wallet!
"Vonnegut was the American Mark Twain. He even looked liked him.[...]" says J. Michael Lennon, the literary executor for Mailer,
Let me regurgitate: I know why you want me to run, and I hear your clamor. I share Americans’ nostalgia for an era when you not only could tell a man by the cut of his jib, but the jib industry hadn’t yet fled to Guangdong. And I don’t intend to tease you for weeks the way Newt Gingrich did, saying that if his supporters raised $30 million, he would run for president. I would run for 15 million. Cash.
CHICAGO—Music, a mode of creative expression consisting of sound and silence expressed through time, was given a 6.8 out of 10 rating in an review published Monday on Pitchfork Media, a well-known music-criticism website.
According to the review, authored by Pitchfork editor in chief Ryan Schreiber, the popular medium that predates the written word shows promise but nonetheless "leaves the listener wanting more."
No matter what he said, he always turned out to have said something libelous, but strictly speaking, you might say that everything he could say about this weird country, with its extremes of inhumanity and irresponsibility all on the increase as they were, could be considered a so-called libel...
The Hawk and the Mouse
A clever mouse is sunning himself in Battery Park, when a hawk swoops down and seizes him in her talons. Whistling through the air, the mouse warns the hawk not to eat him. “Why shouldn’t I?” says the hawk. “Don’t you know,” says the mouse, “that mice are loaded with trans fats?” Alarmed, the hawk releases the mouse and flies away. Several days later, the hawk happens upon an old owl devouring a less fortunate mouse. “Stop!” cries the hawk. “Don’t you know those things are loaded with trans fats?” The owl stops eating and says, “What are you, an idiot?”
Moral: You just can’t argue with libertarians.
Lincoln attending an important diner—
Suddenly his stoic face is bright red in panic:
A chicken bone lodged in his windpipe!
Booth seen fleeing out the back door
“LITERARY UPSTART”
Throughout the past two months, contestants in The L Magazine’s “American Idol”-like short-story-reading competition have presented their fiction before a panel of literary-world insiders. The three finalists—Franklin Winslow, Raphaela Weissman, and Lincoln Michel—face off on June 21, starting at 8:30. (The Baggot Inn, 82 W. 3rd St. No tickets necessary.)
Guy Whose Story Narrated By a Man Who Secretly Thinks His Pregnant Wife Is Gross and a Little Scary Had the Effect of Possibly Scaring the Female Contingent of Our Judging Panel off of Childbirth Forever.
Opinions and fish.— Possessing opinions is like possessing fish, assuming one has a fishpond. One has to go fishing and needs some luck—then one has one's own fish, one's own opinions. I am speaking of live opinions, of live fish. Others are satisfied if they own a cabinet of fossils—and in their heads, "convictions."
Today is also the anniversary of the death of Charles Bukowksi. Drink a 40 for Biggie and a shot of Whisky for Buk.
The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea - Yuko MishimaKINKY’S HEAD
“Would you like to have your head examined?”
I said to Kinky, who was holding his head. “Oh yes,”
he said, “I would like to know what’s wrong with
me.” Gloom was his life, despair was his only food.
I opened up his head. My God, it was dark in there,
and full of cobwebs with dead flies in them. “There
are no lights in here,” I said. “It looks like you
have had no visitors in years. And there’s not a
trace of an idea, just a rat gnawing on its tail
hoping to become a saint in some counterfeit hell.”
“I love that rat,” Kinky said. “He’s the last of
my monsters, old skin and bones.”
