Literary warpath

I am so very, deeply pissed about the Pulitzer committee's failure to select a fiction prizewinner this year. There are many better (er, worse) injustices to be enraged by in the world, I realize, but the sheer waste of it is sending me into a frenzy. Hell, even within the publishing industry there are greater controversies right now. But man, am I steamed.

The situation is this: each year a few large literary prizes are handed out. These prizes bring acclaim to literary novels that otherwise might not see much in the way of sales. How do you get people to set down Hunger Games or Game of Thrones (both of which I think are ace, for the record) and pick up a literary novel? You give it a prize, a crowning - all hail the king of literature, for this short time. Booksellers put piles of these books out in front of their stores, newspapers run the lists, TV personalities repeat the winning titles on air. It's a freaking bonanza for the brains!

FYNCT

Every time I check out http://fuckyournoguchicoffeetable.tumblr.com/ I can identify what sites the images are from. It's usually Apartment Therapy, but sometimes they're from the house of someone who works at my company. Tee hee.

Also, is it terrible that I want to pin everything on there, even when it is an object of derision? Don't answer.

You go, guys

My friends are doing such incredible things! The recent round of incredibleness was kicked off with Nicole's 30 Rock appearance, and today I've got a three-fer!

1. Shwin's Atlantic article on Stephen Elliott
2. Simone's interview in The Bold Italic about her documentary
3. Mike's Bank of America "apology" website went live, and got all sorts of coverage

Today is also Besha's birthday, an occasion to celebrate a chick who works every day for women's public health and then continues to do so as a volunteer in her free time, all while riding her scooter around town looking super damn cute all the time. She rocks.

My daguerrotype boyfriend

is awesome. For example: Modigliani.

Dude got mad ladies, and now I see why.

In the aeroplane

It has been a fabulous couple of days in the Life of Me, despite rain and wind and lots of work. 

Friday Mike and I finally hit up Una Pizza Napoletana, which was as good as everyone says it is. We showed up toward the end of the night, were seated almost right away, and wound up with two gorgeous tender (tender! did you know pizza can be tender?) pies in front of us. Mike gets a dreamy look on his face when he talks about them - ask him sometime. 

We stopped by a friend's metal show, where I was one of 3 ladies in attendance. One of the bands had a pole dancer performing during their set, and she was completely amazing. My feminism had some weird spasms. Based on the sweatshirt she put on after her show, she's part of the National Poledancing Team. And now you know that exists.

Saturday we went for a hike in Point Reyes, but first stopped at Cowgirl Creamery for fortifications.

Texts from Hillary

Love.

Bean

I feel like Boston and I are related. Like with family, I really look forward to seeing it, then it drives me a little nuts, then I get drunk and love it, then I feel a little sad when leaving but also excited to go home.

I had high hopes for beautiful spring weather on my trip, but when I landed on Sunday it was cold and grey. I walked across the Charles to the North End, bought myself some pignoli cookies and jordan almonds at Mike's Pastry (don't worry, I got cannoli for my coworkers), ate some oysters, and napped with a vengeance back at the hotel as it drizzled outside.

My coworkers and I had an intense couple of days meeting with engineers, but managed to get in a good dinner at Cuchi Cuchi. It's froufrou-ness makes it less than ideal for a work event, but I have good memories of blowing my alcohol budget on cocktails there in ye olden days, and the booze did not disappoint. Neither did the servers, all of whom dress like flappers and speak in unidentifiable pseudo-European accents. Anything is better than a Boston accent, I say. (Sorry!)

Tuesday I rounded up a motley crew for bluegrass night at the Cantab, an event I went to almost every Tuesday night in college. They started letting me in before I was 21 (shhh), so I repaid them by drinking my weight in Bass and eating it in curly fries for the rest of my college career. They don't have Bass on tap anymore, and the kitchen apparently closed for good 4 years ago, but otherwise it was the same. Same bartender, same waitress (oh, Christine), same weird mix of falling-apart old men of various races. Once the bluegrass gets going though, the yuppies turn out in hordes. Just doing my part!

Goooood morning

It's 5 a.m. on a Sunday and I'm at the airport for a flight to Boston. The only thing giving me half a reason to live right now is this.

Wheat berries with roasted cabbage and fennel, avocado and parsley. Not breakfast food, you say? It is still nighttime, I argue. And I'd love to plop a fried egg on top, but that's not an option available to me right now. So this will have to do.