I think Rihanna has her spatial metaphor a little mixed up. It should be “Come under me,” not “Come into me.” But that would eliminate a tidy little double entendre—however, is that really the kind of entendre she should even want? “Come into me?” I mean, coming under someone sounds kind of silly/gross, but who says “come into me,” except for Julianne Moore in Boogie Nights.
Bed time! Too much Internet has made my head all weird.
I fought the Nightman, lived as Dayman, now I’m here to ask for your hand
I am SO GLAD that you posted this. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, et cetera. SO GLAD!
Please say, ‘yes’ and do not bone me. Please, just marry me.
Charlie’s asking the waitress not to “bone [him]” by saying no to his proposal—that’s why I fucking LOVE Sunny.
That house had a lot in it.
John Keats on his death-bed, 28th of January 1821. He passed away 26 days later.
Outliving John Keats has always been one of my goals. Luckily I don’t (even want to) write poetry, because then I’d have a second stick by which to measure my life to his—and I’m sure to finish second on it.
It’s a concise review, but it gives you the main points on why you should already be listening to this thing.
I’ve been thinking about it, and it’s—well, who really cares what anyone thinks—the new Los Campesinos! album seems kind of trite and small. But, I’m pretty sure, like five nines sure, that it’s my favorite album of the year—over Of Montreal, No Age, Beach House, TV on the Radio, and a bunch of way cooler albums.
We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed seems like a heavily-accented UK response to Pinkerton. Every song is about a break-up. There’s minutia, drama, sex, and self-loathing. The music is fast, loud, and full of hooks. Yes, this is my favorite album of the year.
Cake - She’ll Come Back To Me
I told you I’d post more Cake.
This song came on while I was at the gym yesterday, and I almost fell off the treadmill. It’s an excellent song all-around. Very sturdy. It’s the mid-90s hatchback Saab of songs: Reliable, kind of cute, well-built.
— From the new Clipse mixtape (!)
From Thomas Michael Alleman’s Holga (!) portfolio. (via That’s a Negative.)
lol
Kate, I thought Atonement was beautifully written, but the plot didn’t really hold my attention. I continued reading it, because I thought the language and imagery were gorgeous, but I was a little bored with the story line. I wanted to read more of his work though, because he’s such an incredible writer, so I picked up Saturday a few months ago and read it in one day. I thought it was amazing. So, maybe you should just see the movie, Atonement, and then try another book of his?
see, i’ve already read on chesil beach, and frankly i didn’t like that, either. the writing is nice, definitely, but the content— eh. it could’ve been really interesting, but i just felt nothing for it.
perhaps mcewan is not for me.
[Reblogged because you don’t seem to have comments.]
Actually, thinking briefly, I don’t really know what would be “for [you],” but I’d like to pipe in here and say that Ian McEwan’s books are not all like Atonement and On Chesil Beach (the latter assumedly, since I didn’t read it [n.b., I haven’t read an IM book since the first third of Saturday, which I ripped in half and left at the gym]. However, I thought that Atonement was quite good, very well-paced, very, very well-written; and, it’s my favorite book of his.
Further however, his earlier books are a lot different. I mean, take Comfort of Strangers, which is about a couple on vacation, during which they get kidnapped under very bizarre circumstance. There was one moment that stands out for me, when I gasped, like really gasped, and I knew that that was definitely IM’s intent there—to make me gasp. And his first novel, the Cement Garden, is probably one of the greatest first novels by a contemporary writer. It’s about a some children whose parents die kind of suddenly, and they’re left on their own for a while. It’s like Lord of the Flies, but much better. (I’m not a Golding fan, really.)
Or take his short story collection, In Between the Sheets, which features (really well-written) stories involving (but not limited to): The castration of a pornographer, a talking ape in a bestial relationship with a blocked writer, and a love affair with a mannequin. Or his novel The Innocent, which is about a spy who has to cut up in a gruesome scene a man his lover’s accidentally killed.
Plus there’s the one about the composer, and the one about the balloon. He has so many amazing novels. I think he’s a lot better writer than, say, Martin Amis, as far as contemporary British men authors go. His recent writing has kind of sucked, but his body of work is still awesome.
This song is so much better this way.
Allison Weiss - “Umbrella (Rihanna Cover)”
I don’t know who this Allison Weiss is, but I know this: I wish this whole Web 2.0 thing had happened while I was in college.
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¶
James Tate - The Radish
I was holding this really exemplary radish in my hand. /
I was admiring its shape and size and color. I was imagining /
its zesty, biting taste. And when I listened, I even thought /
I could hear it singing. It was unlike anything I had ever /
heard, perhaps an oriental woman from a remote mountain village /
singing to her rabbit. She's hiding in a cave, and night has /
fallen. Her parents had decided to sell her to the evil prince. /
And he and his thousand soldiers were searching for her everywhere. /
She trembled in the cold and held the rabbit to her cheek. She /
whispered the song in a high, thin voice, like a reed swaying /
by itself on a bank above a river. The rabbit's large, brown ears /
stood straight up, not wanting to miss a word. Then I dropped /
the radish into my basket and moved down the aisle. The store /
was exceptionally crowded, due to the upcoming holiday. My cart /
jostled with the others. Sometimes it pretended we were in a cock- /
fight, a little cut here, some bleeding. Now the advantage is mine. /
I jump up and spur the old lady, who's weak and ready to fall. /
I spot a mushroom I really want. It's within reach. You could /
search all day and never find a mushroom like that. I could smell /
it sizzling in butter and garlic. I could taste it garnishing my /
steak. Suddenly, my cart is rammed and I'm reeling for my balance. /
I can't even see who the enemy is. Then I'm hit again and I'm /
sprawling up against the potatoes. I've been separated from my /
cart. I look around desperately. "Have you seen my cart?" I ask /
a man dressed in lederhosen and an alpine hat. "I myself have /
misplaced my mother's ashes. How could I know anything about your /
cart?" he said. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother," I said. /
"Was it sudden, or was it a long, slow, agonizing death, where /
you considered killing her yourself just to put her out of her pain?" /
"Is that your cart with the radish in it?" he said. "Oh, yes, /
thank you, thank you a thousand times over, I can't thank you /
enough," I said. "Schmuck," he said. The mushroom of my dreams, /
of course, was long gone, and the others looked sickly, like they /
were meant to kill you, so I forged on past the kohlrabi and /
parsnips. I hesitated at the okra. A flood of fond memories /
overcame me. I remembered Tanya and her tiny okra, so firm and /
tasty, one Christmas long ago. There was a fire in the fireplace /
and candlelight, music, and the crunch, crunch, crunch of the okra. /
I have never been able to touch okra since that sacred day. /
We were in the Klondike, or so it seemed to me then. Tanya had /
a big dog, and it ate the roast, and we had a big laugh, but now /
I don't think it's funny. I remember the smell of that roast, /
as if it were cooking this very minute, and I can see Tanya /
bending over to check on it. How did we ever get out of there /
alive? and what happened to Tanya? I look around, peaches and /
plums. I'm buffeted from behind. "Watch it," I say to no one in /
particular. Eight eyes are glaring at me. "I'm moving," I say. /
But I can't move. The rabbit says, "Tonight we will meet our /
death, but it will be beautiful and we will be brave and not /
afraid. You will sing to me and I will close my eyes and dream /
of a garden where we will play under the starlight, and that's /
where the story ends. with me munching a radish and you laughing." /
I can't move," I said.
