April 22, 2014

Just one parent in our current generation of parents who’s up at 1 AM listening to ‘90’s music in futile defiance of having to wake up in 6 hours. (And picturing my parents listening to Dusty Springfield or whatever circa 1985, lacking computers on which to read about tarantulas, but otherwise pretty much the same.)

[ETA: RIP Field Notes theme.]

April 5, 2014
Weaknesses do surface, though not from any overreaching. “Sweet Jamaica” and “(I Never Wanted) To Be a Star” are rather precious, and the electronics on “Was Dog a Doughnut” are a bit too robotlike. More than one song contains the obvious lyric: “We’re getting older as time goes by/A little older with everyday/We were the children of yesterday.”

Weaknesses do surface, though not from any overreaching. “Sweet Jamaica” and “(I Never Wanted) To Be a Star” are rather precious, and the electronics on “Was Dog a Doughnut” are a bit too robotlike. More than one song contains the obvious lyric: “We’re getting older as time goes by/A little older with everyday/We were the children of yesterday.”

February 18, 2014


(Source: rarecade)

January 21, 2014





January 17, 2014

January 16, 2014

I really liked this week’s podcast because I got to argue with Molly about whether or not a table can be a victim. (IT CAN’T)

January 14, 2014
idea for your next tattoo!

idea for your next tattoo!

January 6, 2014
The Next Civil Rights Issue: Why Women Aren't Welcome on the Internet - Pacific Standard: The Science of Society

December 29, 2013
The Internet Hoaxes That Had Us All Clicking For More

Honored/terrified to be on All Things Considered, still too terrified to listen to it but here it is anyway!

December 23, 2013
Short Story

"Get off the record player," said Tess to her cat. The cat jumped off the record player and onto the table.

"Get off the table," said Tess. The cat jumped off the table, walked into the kitchen and lit up a Nat Sherman.

"Put that out," said Tess. The cat glared at her and pissed on the floor while smoking his Nat Sherman.

"That’s disgusting."

The cat turned his back to Tess and cleaned up the puddle. He went into the kitchen, got out an Abita Pecan Harvest and poured it into his bowl. He drank it. Immediately, he became visibly drunk.

"Stop it, you’re sensitive," said Tess. The cat threw up in the trash can and washed his hands with his tongue. He brought out his iPhone and started playing the Foo Fighters.

"Sorry, but that’s annoying," said Tess. The cat shut it off and began checking his email.

The cat read an email he didn’t like. He puffed up his fur and hissed, then swatted the phone down the hallway to the bathroom and tried to flush it down the toilet.

Tess entered the bathroom. “What are you doing?” She asked. “That was an expensive phone.”

The cat was sullen and hid behind the shower curtain, hugging the floor with his belly.

"Don’t be like this," said Tess. "Go sit in your place."

The cat went and sat in his place, by the bottom of the refrigerator. Tess fed him tiny bits of ham. He asked for capers and she said no, then asked herself why not and gave him some. He went into the living room and considered the Christmas tree. He could not access it because of a baby gate. The cat cried long and hard.

He gathered his courage and tried to figure out how to move his lips. “Please,” said the cat, “I want to go under there.”

"You’re going to pee on it," said Tess, because she had known the cat for a dozen years and he had never failed to pee underneath the Christmas tree.

"I won’t," lied the cat.

"Yeah, you will," said Tess.

They locked eyes. The cat’s eyes were yellow and unrelenting. They sat there for hours, through Christmas eve, through Christmas day, on and on and on over the presents that were opened and the egg nog that was poured. The cat’s tail waved in the background like a metronome. Tess excused herself for food and other necessities, but brought the cat with her on her shoulder so that she could continue to stare at him.

Neither was willing to break. The tree was hauled away and the gift wrappings put into bags that were thrown in the dumpster down the block. Dean Martin played on the radio, the cat’s favorite. In early 2014, they arrived at a truce. Their cups of eggnog were attracting flies, which distracted them both.

"Next year," said the cat, "I’m going to get you."

"Not if I get you first."

Tess was tired and had to go to bed. She left the room and closed the door so the cat could be alone with his thoughts. She heard him dancing on the record player, smashing the five plates that she considered her best china, and whispering about her in a nasty way. She whispered about the cat — his worst embarrassments, the duvets ruined and the times she had caught him doing unmentionable things to dog toys — and their whispers grew louder and louder through the night, as neither one slept, until she got out of bed in the morning and they shared their first cup of 2014 coffee, regarding each other across the table.

Between them stretched twelve years of cohabitation and familiarity. They had arrived at new apartments and houses together, gone to college together, gotten drunk together. They had seen each other in dirty towels after flu-showers and covered with soot from crawling around in the fireplace like maniacs. They had chased laser pointers as kittens and sat on balconies in the dark listening to burbling pools in separate spheres of intense loneliness. The cat had often crawled into her lap purring when she was devastated by something and massaged her shoulders with soft paws. They had experienced periods of hatred for one another, when she had yelled because he had scratched her face and he had hissed at her in fear and spent the night destroying or eating everything in the wastebasket. He had taken her shoes. She had given up serving him wet food. Now they were both old, but he was (realistically speaking) older, and that made her very sad.

Next year, he would get her, if she didn’t get him first. But soon it would be spring, and then summer (which they agreed was their favorite time together, when they would stretch out on the floor in a patch of sun by an air conditioning vent to read Vanity Fair), and by the time it was Christmas again their whiskers would be even longer and the jump from the cabinet a little tougher on the knees. And eventually it would be the last Christmas, and she would know. And there would  be no baby gate around the Christmas tree, only drop cloths and Nat Shermans and catnp and the vague memories of past holidays where they had warred from either side of a door. Those seemed pleasant now. And they would take out an issue of Vanity Fair and stretch out on the floor like it was summer and the cold air would slip in from a crack in a window as they thought of all of the things they’d seen together, and how well they knew each other, and outside the snow would fall like sparkling bonito flakes from heaven.

December 23, 2013


"A Love Supreme Part I: Acknowledgement" by John Coltrane

December 18, 2013
Home doesn’t need a filter.

Home doesn’t need a filter.

December 10, 2013
I have some little stories in this lovely book!

I have some little stories in this lovely book!

December 6, 2013
Where Are The Geniuses?

Hey, geniuses. I have some ideas for you but absolutely no practical knowledge. Can you please make these things for me/the world?:


This is a box. On the left there are three settings: leather, pleather, and other. On the right are three more settings: filthy, disgusting and gross. Then there’s a little red button in the center that says AUTO-CLEAN (this feature incinerates all the trash so you don’t have to feel bad about yourself). You put your purse in the box and select your cleaning cycles. The device uses UV lights, cyclonic wind energy, atomized perfume and magic to shake your bag free of gum wrappers, tiny paper crumblies, melted gum, cookie particles and snotty tissues, then adds an aroma that makes you forget about the time a milk carton exploded in its guts. VOILA.


There are litter robots, and they are ill-conceived. I have two cats — my mistake — and I know that if you have a cat who’s cool with entering into a contraption that makes sounds like a garbage disposal and has light-up eyes, you should just send your feline to MIT and let him use the restrooms at college. This is a traditional litterbox with legs so that, when prompted, it can walk itself out to the garbage or your enemy’s lawn and empty itself. I feel like this one I could probably tackle on my own, because those little wind-up toys with legs don’t seem like rocket science or anything, but I’m busy and bad at math and I’m just going to pass this idea along to cat-people engineers. VOILA.


You know when you have a little container of dairy-thing and it stinks like it’s bad but it claims to be good? Or you scramble eggs with past-due dates that haven’t come but there’s just something weird about them? We need a scanner that just tells you what you’re in for. A little arrow points to POISON or DELICIOUS, depending on what’s up with your groceries. Take it on the road and see how old the lettuce on your sub is, or when your sushi was fished out of the sea. Never barf again. VOILA.


I fought with a Roomba for five years. It was my most expensive enemy. It jammed, it snagged, it heaved, it expired over and over. Why can’t we make floors with vents that double as black-hole vacuums and sweat Murphy’s oil soap at night (you don’t want to see them do it, it’s bound to be gnarly). Squeegee friends emerge when everything’s slick and glide across your hardwood, absorbing the soap with their microfibers. Then a hologram beams a vase of flowers onto your coffee table that can’t be knocked over by your pets. VOILA.


Makeup is annoying. So is plastic surgery. Sometimes you want to go out to dinner wearing Tupac’s face. This would also be great for criminals. VOILA.

December 3, 2013


Liked posts on Tumblr: More liked posts »