This reminds me of the old saying that if you want something strange done, ask a creative Slav to do it: People Who Have “Too Many Interests” Are More Likely To Be Successful According To Research
No one was as good at slavic puns as my cousin Andrej and my godfather Janko. Down Under the Irish tend to nail the puns like no other ... Jim Whild and Greg Job would struggle next to MO'N or BC ... Slavic, Irish who steal puns from Jewish beatitudes tend to make the world go round especially during lunch time walks ...
? The punchline is freighted with grief and irony, meant to elicit a weary nod rather than outright laughter Shmultsy punchy lines
Words worth more than money for Melbourne street poet
Why moaning about work can actually be good for you
The research is in: having a whinge with your colleagues can make everyone’s day a bit better
Following up on previous post, Conservative Law Prof Heckled by CUNY Protestors: Michael Simkovic (USC), A Well-Organized Campaign to Bait, Discredit, and Take Over Universities Is Exploiting Students and Manipulating the Public
A long look at the life of Jeff Bezos—carpet-bagger meets mover-shaker—in Washington, D.C.
When mandarins join the big end of town
VERONA BURGESS: You’re leaving a senior position in the Australian Public Service and covet a plush seat in the elite company directors’ club. Be careful what you wish for.
The spy who came home
"Why an expert in counterterrorism became a beat cop." (The New Yorker)
The Meanest Things Vladimir Nabokov Said About Other Writers
Persephone ate you
and went to hell.
walked with you under her blouse—
her two daughters
hobbling with her.
Every day one seed
for each of them.
Whatever death road
they walked down
you were seed-apple,
of the soul—
for hard times.
Sometimes she looked upat the moon and saw you
Sante’s book is a history, and his Paris is real but it is constructed out of books, out of literature, out of Baudelaire and Eugène Sue’s The Mysteries of Paris (1842-43) and super-criminal Eugène François Vidocq’s Memoirs (1828). Les Halles, the giant food market, last seen at Wuthering Expectations in Zola's The Belly of Paris, is Sante’s great symbol of this other Paris, or at least it’s destruction, “replaced by a hellish subterranean shopping mall that is nowadays topped by that urbanist cure-all, anespace vert,” symbolizes the end of the subject of his book (10). Sante builds his Paris out of images, too, with one or two on every page, magazine illustrations, sheet music, and numerous postcards, street scenes from circa 1910.
The craze for suburban tree house bistros, based on Swiss Family Robinson. Gangs –les apaches – whose members tattooed lines on their throats to guide the guillotine. The saga of the anarchist Bonnot Gang (“It was the world’s first getaway car”). Look at this list of occupations, documented by the flaneur Privat d’Anglemont, who may not be completely accurate, but still:
Madame Thibaudeau swept jewelers’ shops for no pay so that she could recuperate gold dust. Madame Vanard, widow of a perfumer, was a zesteuse: she picked up lemon rinds from the stalls of lemonadiers and sold the zest to the makers of Curacao, syrups, and essences. Old Monsieur Beaufils bought nightingales, canaries, and finches and, after educating them in song for six to eight weeks, resold them for four times what he paid. (99)
And those are just the ordinary occupations. Prostitution gets its own chapter (“The Business”), as do professional criminals and singers. Edith Piaf, as far as this book is concerned, is the professionalized end of a long, sordid, wild tradition. “It was certainly not her fault that when she died, Paris was on the verge of becoming the trade name ‘Paris’”
Saved by "but"
Kristeva, Julia Kristeva
On Sean Penn's novel
Hirst v. aboriginal artists
No shame in growing old