Tingle Alley

One of my favorite things in Sylvia Plath’s diaries are the entries that swing from “I need to start having people over for dinner more often! What a pleasure to cook for people!” to “I need to stop having people over for dinner all the time, they’re assholes and I need more time to write.” (Loose paraphrase!)

I think of this whenever I get in a burst of sociability.

maudnewton:

Dear ragweed: I almost typed rageweed by accident, even though I was going to try to come up with something fair-minded to say. Such as, theoretically I have nothing against you. But if you could just not pollinate? Or if you could thrive on the moon?


Ugh, yes. When I read today’s horoscope for Geminis, it left off, “You will accidentally take a Benadryl nap midmorning.”

maudnewton:

Dear ragweed: I almost typed rageweed by accident, even though I was going to try to come up with something fair-minded to say. Such as, theoretically I have nothing against you. But if you could just not pollinate? Or if you could thrive on the moon?

Ugh, yes. When I read today’s horoscope for Geminis, it left off, “You will accidentally take a Benadryl nap midmorning.”
Source: maudnewton

A couple of years ago we were in San Francisco visiting my stepson, and one night we were walking back from dinner and there was this nice grenadine-ish smell in the air, and I said, “It smells like cherries.” My stepson paused, sniffed, and said, “That’s urinal cakes, Carrie.” (Except he’s very deadpan, so it was more like, “That’s. urinal. cakes.”) Anyway, I was writing well this morning so I was late getting to the woods for a walk. It was already hot out and there were lots of thick gnarly spider webs everywhere with dime-sized spiders in them. None of the guys I passed were wearing shirts. And once in a while when the breeze picked up it smelled a lot like urinal cakes (not unpleasantly!).

“My stylist went out hunting for red leather pants and you would think that in 1981, in New York City, you would have been able to find red leather pants everywhere, but we could only find one pair,” he says over the phone from New Mexico. “So she brought the pants back and they didn’t fit anybody in the band.”

The surprising and tragic story behind the behind on Loverboy’s Get Lucky cover

(Those pants! Get Lucky was in my first batch of tapes from the Columbia Record and Tape Club.)

My friend Flurry saw this while he was out and about in San Francisco today. He wrote, “Title page of novel? Contents of package? Taped to teacher’s back?” 

I really hope it’s the first. “Now I’d like to read a short section from my novel entitled … ,” etc.

My friend Flurry saw this while he was out and about in San Francisco today. He wrote, “Title page of novel? Contents of package? Taped to teacher’s back?”

I really hope it’s the first. “Now I’d like to read a short section from my novel entitled … ,” etc.

"I’m not used to seeing people’s faces," he said. "There’s too much information there. Aren’t you aware of it? Too much, too fast."

The Strange Tale of the North Pond Hermit

Wow. This is an incredible story of a man who lived in the woods of Maine for nearly three decades, surviving almost entirely on things he stole from summer homes. He was finally caught, and reporter Micheal Finkel struck up a sort of friendship with him, visiting him in prison and learning about the years he spent silent and alone. 

(via chels)

(via chels)

Source: GQ