Presumably in order to avoid offending anyone with the already euphemism-laden sex talk scene at the mall, E! has made some questionable choices in dubbing.
To wit: Where Tai says, “Just as long as his you-know-what isn’t crooked,” they have swapped in, “just as long as his you-know-what isn’t you-know-what.”
Where Dionne originally says, “The PC term is hymenally challenged,” we now have, “The PC term is hermetically sealed.”
I’m visiting friends in new orleans at the moment and it’s noon and I’m the only person awake (since, oh, 8 am). I’ve been sneaking around their house all morning to get water and to pee, pretending like I’m trying not to disturb them, but secretly hoping they hear me and get up out of guilt. Such a needy, petulant child.
— The Mutilated Hand, Weinzweig & Weinzweig
Sam Cooke covering Dylan. Joyous.
This photo confusingly makes it seem like the penis is supposed to represent Allison. I’ve got nothing against Allison. I don’t know who she is. Rather, the arrow you see connects the penis to the words Tool of Change. The brief delight I assume this will give people upon arriving to class today brings me genuine joy, making this my greatest accomplishment since arriving at Harvard.
I have a weakness for places — for old battlefields, car-crash sites, houses where famous authors lived. Bygone passions should always have an address, it seems to me. Ideally, the world would be covered with plaques and markers listing the notable events that occurred at each particular spot. A sign on every pay phone would describe how a woman broke up with her fiance here, how a young ballplayer learned that he had made the team. Unfortunately, the world itself is fluid, and changes out from under us; the rocky islands that the pilot Mark Twain was careful to avoid in the Mississippi are now stone outcroppings in a soybean field. Meanwhile, our passions proliferate into illegibility, and the places they occur can’t hold them. Eventually pay phones will become relics of an almost-vanished landscape, and of a time when there were fewer of us and our stories were on an earlier page. Romantics like me will have to reimagine our passions as they are — unmoored to earth, like an infinitude of cell-phone messages flying through the atmosphere.
In you alone I have found the same swelling of enthusiasm, the same quick rising of the blood, the fullness, the fullness. Before, I almost used to think there was something wrong. Everybody else seemed to have the brakes on. I never feel the brakes. I overflow.
-Anais Nin, Letter to Henry Miller, 1932
Ok, seriously this is the last time I will chime in with a wistful anecdote related to Clayton Cubitt’s images of New Orleans. But I think it’s important to note that I used to go to Buffa’s Bar by myself once a month on Sunday mornings and that it was the single most lovely ritual I’ve ever developed. I would go alone at 9 am, sit at the bar with a giant book, and eat eggs and biscuits and smoke cigarettes and drink bloody marys made by Anna, the initially surly, exceedingly sweet bartender who shares my name. This woman ruined me on bloody marys. It took her about 10 minutes to make one for all the crap she put in there (celery salt obviously, pickled okra and green beans, olive juice?) and she would groan and look pissed when you asked for one, but then I’d just flatter her by saying how hers were the best I’d ever had. She would smile, just a little bit, clearly flattered.
See you in one week, my beautiful freaks.
Jesus annoyed, trying to walk on water but getting his foot stuck in the BP oilspill, above the bar at Buffa’s, New Orleans
