Swedish Chef Ramsay
Can’t breathe… From the funny…
This day, four years ago, we aired our very first episode. Thank you, Parks and Rec fans, for all the support. We awesomesauce you.
I wasn’t impressed by their initial episodes, but they certainly rallied in the last three seasons. Kudos!
dammit bruce, get yourself together man!
One reason people’s aversion to poetry sometimes passes over into strong annoyance, or even resentment, is that poems steal our very language out from under us and return it malformed, misshapen, hardly recognizable…
4 Copy Editors Killed In Ongoing AP Style, Chicago Manual Gang Violence: Full Story
Wonder what color bandanas each rival wears…?
The poet Jack Gilbert died this week, and it shook me to my core. It’s not as if his death was unexpected - he was an old man by any standard, and ultimately succumbed to dementia and the late stage effects of Altzheimer’s - but because he was a huge aspect of my undergraduate career, his now-absence seems too much of a page turning that I would rather not have turned.
Reading The Great Fires was like a clairion bell ringing too close to my head. It cut through the slightly post-adolencent experience of early college and laid open in an instant what the world beyond looked like, smelled like, and in some way even tasted like. He plunged some emotional depths that I didn’t care to revisit, but also allowed me a language with which to traverse the coming years, the coming milestones in a life.
So let us pour a bit of wine out on the cobbled streets. Give a hat-tip to a passing group of older men. Enjoy the unique clarity of sunlight at the peaks a touch longer. I celebrate by doing, which seems all the more important as I approach my fourth decade on this planet.
Horrifically but undeniably, a dark, cynical leap into the deepest moral abyss seems to be exactly what Lance Armstrong’s career really was. Together with almost everyone who had been a fan and admirer of Armstrong’s achievements, both athletic and philanthropic, I’ve been wrestling with painful, complicated feelings of anger, sorrow, and disillusionment as the totality of his disgrace sinks in. But as a magazine journalist once deeply invested in covering the Armstrong era in cycling, I also feel a shock of self-recrimination as I struggle to reconcile my part in lionizing a man who, in hindsight, was almost certainly a cheat and a liar of breathtaking audacity and shamelessness. How could I have characterized the rumors and accusations that Lance relied on banned performance-enhancing drugs and techniques as part of a “myth”?
Read more. [Image: AP]
In 1998, the High Museum of Art in Atlanta asked Richard Misrach to produce a body of work for their “Picturing the South” series. Misrach decided to focus on “Cancer Alley,” the Mississippi corridor that stretches a hundred and fifty miles between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, a startling landscape where antebellum mansions and current-day communities line the swamps and levees among gargantuan industrial plants that produce a quarter of America’s petrochemicals.
Over a decade later, the Museum asked Misrach to return to Cancer Alley to shoot, and then combined this new work with the original series for an exhibition and book called “Petrochemical America,” published by Aperture.
Click-through for more from Suzanne Shaheen on the exhibit, and for a slideshow featuring more images: http://nyr.kr/QgT2zT
So wonderful and haunting.
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