From Sue Halpern’s Slate diary:
“I thought most novels were 600 pages long,” my mother says. “How come yours is so short?”
“It’s not so short. And anyway, most novels are not 600 pages long.”
“Oh,” she says. “I must just be thinking of East of Eden.”
“East of Eden?”
“You know, from the Oprah book club. It sure took longer than two days to read.”
“Did you see that really good review of my incredibly short book in the new Oprah Magazine?” I ask hopefully.
My mother doesn’t answer. Not directly. “Do you think she’ll have you on her show?” she asks.
The good people at Far Afield bring us the results of a new poll that spells trouble for Bush: “35% wondered idly whether Bush uses Viagra. 15% pointed out that they were pretty sure Bob Dole did.”
Jean-Luc Godard blogs for The Stallion:
I will be blogging for The Stallion until it bores me to do so. The Stallion, he did not like to use the word “blog”. But I like the word. I like it very much. In fact, I use it all the time, and not just when referring to the internet. For example, I will say, “Darling, would you please bring me a glass of blog.” Words truly have no meaning. There is nothing for us to do but sit and die.
Charles Bukowski on the soothing effects of cats.
Seventhly, She hath a preternatural desire to something not fit to eat nor drink, as some women with child have longed to bite off a piece of their Husbands Buttocks.
From Geoff Wolinetz’s “Out on the Town with John Lithgow“:
The truth of the matter is I don’t hang out with him as much because he insists on playing that damn banjo all the time. Don’t get me wrong. I love bluegrass as much as the next guy. With John, it’s just the same thing over and over again. He has to know songs other than “Clementine,” but he won’t play them. We both have to sing every single chorus.
Two you may have seen elsewhere:
Dishery’s review of last week’s New Yorker. (Via TMFTML, where an award is offered to the first New York Times bylined writer to “sneak the word ‘suck’ past standards editor Allan Siegal.”)