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A hilarious newsletter from one of my oldest and dearest, @tinglealley
The captions to the above photos, and others, are awesome. Also linked in the newsletter is an article for The Awl that Carrie wrote (with submissions from me and our friend Allyson) in celebration of Nick’s 50th birthday in 2012 (D2 tweeted and FB’d it. We were giddy for weeks!). You can link to it here as well.
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“Little lynx kitty! https://t.co/poKj7DBucy”
Not a lynx, a caracal. Here’s a comparison…
The caracal’s moustache, eyebrows and ear-tips are a giveaway even from birth…
…and it looks like the ears grow before the legs…
…which soon follow…
If Elves had cats, they’d look like caracals.
I’m sorry to interrupt but that comparison picture of the caracal and lynx is clearly a wedding photo and I’d like to take a moment to wish the joyous couple every happiness.
This is the nicest description of the Black Cardigan newsletter! Also: the other newsletters mentioned here are all wonderful and worth subscribing too. Add a Comment
I started a tinyletter! It’s about the Kardashians (and murder, and women, and invisible laws and shadow trials). I’ve so enjoyed the tinyletters I subscribe to. Here’s a little list:
Black Cardigan by Carrie Frye: light and clever, earnest and broad. For people who like Harriet the Spy, Hilary Mantel, and occasionally discovering an archaic word.
when I sing along with you by Zan Romanoff: the complications of accomplishment, the many weirdnesses of publishing, and One Directionitis. @zanopticon has not one but TWO books coming out, this feels like riding shotgun next to her on the way there.
Like This by Meaghan O’Connell: Love her in NY Mag, love her here.
Reading the Tarot by Jessa Crispin: “Day Five. Tower again. Fuck off, I think. One time I pulled Temperance 10 days in a row. I was in Budapest and then en route to Timisoara. Things were not going well.“
Coffee & TV by Ruth Curry: if you want to cry about someone else being moved to tears by Orphan Black
Intermittent Theories by Lucy Morris: Lucy Morris can just write the shit out of a newsletter. “This is perhaps why things I wrote when I was 22 do not particularly embarrass me, as I understand they are supposed to; I fault myself for many things but never my attempts at understanding something in the center of it all, and in the face of that endeavor, it has always been difficult for me to care about the fine-tuning of structure or the making of sentences.“
mmmm, vol 1. by cassiem: She moved to DC, what now?
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Peace for the World. 30 years ago a bunch of us teens skipped school and spent the day hanging out at Houdini Plaza in Appleton, WI. This newspaper article and flyer are some more of the goodies I unearthed recently in the adjunct vinyl vault. ‘86 was the height of the Reagan and Cold War era and we were all generally freaked out at the prospect of nuclear war (this was just three years after the airing of The Day After which scared the shit out of just about everyone).
The main instigator of the nuclear protest/peace rally was local very cool girl Carrie Russell, who was inspired by BYO Records, which had recently sponsored a nationwide protest against war. Throughout the day we hung out, wrote anti-war messages on the pavement in chalk, planted white flowers and generally freaked out the downtown Appleton adults. I went with my good friend Carrie (not Russell, a different Carrie, but just as very cool) who made t-shirts for us. Faded completely now, on the back she wrote part of the lyrics from John Lennon’s “Imagine.” That last picture above is me in May ‘86 wearing the peace shirt, which I still have.
Two local punk bands performed: Mission of Mercy from Green Bay and Bad Culture from Neenah (though the newspaper article misnamed them “Bed Culture” - ha!). Old man Clifford Johnson had this to say about the band, “Maybe the music tells a story. I don’t know. I can’t understand it.” Now get off my damn lawn.
We were so gloriously naïve, passionate and sincere. The fear in the world unfortunately hasn’t gotten better in 30 years, quite the opposite, but hopefully there are people who will continue to show up, speak out and try to foster change.
“Two Dogs Running” - a short film starring Carmella and Oatmeal.Add a Comment
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An absolutely beautiful note I found attached to the fence outside Prince’s Paisley Park. (at Paisley Park Studios)
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Duran Duran “Girls on Film 1979 Demo” 1979/2016. Four song EP on clear vinyl. Pre-Simon LeBon and Andy Taylor: Andy Wickett on vocals and John Taylor on guitar rather than bass (also still going by Nigel), Roger on drums and Nick on keyboards of course.
Side A leads off with “See Me Repeat Me” which would later be rewritten, turning into “Rio” - you can hear this especially in the musical transition between verse and chorus. On the second track, “Reincarnation,” Wickett sounds a lot like his replacement, Simon, and Nick’s keyboards are delightfully low-tech.
Side B’s “Girls on Film” is a rough version of the well-known single and it’s weird to not hear Simon’s voice. The lyrics are quite different (and the harmonica disconcerting) but the hook, rhythm and bass are wonderfully familiar. “Working the Steel” leans heavily toward arty experimentation, a lot of dissonance and howling. John Taylor describes this era of Duran as “the Sex Pistols meet Chic.”
You can listen to “Girls on Film” and “Working the Steel” here.
Oh this was such a fun show! My first concert. (Sarah’s dad and grandpa played cards, if I remember right, while we were in the show.) Add a Comment
Depeche Mode “Black Celebration” released on this date 30 years ago, March 17th, 1986. I’ve been waiting anxiously for this one - Black Celebration was such a big deal for me the spring of ‘86 and I’m pretty sure I bought this within weeks of its release. Such a gloriously dark album: “Fly on the Windscreen - Final” is perfection in its death-march pace, rolling romantically in pain with the lyrics “Death is everywhere, there are flies on the windscreen for a start, reminding us we could be torn apart tonight…Come here, kiss me. Now.” The urgent fear of violence and domination in “A Question of Time” kinda scared the crap out of me when I was 15. “Stripped” is one of the best and rawest love songs I’ve ever heard (“Let me see you stripped down to the bone, Let me hear you speaking just for me, Let me hear you crying just for me). “Here is the House” makes me think of a couple of places we’d hang out at during the course of ‘86, places “where it all happens, under this roof” for real. My teenage indignation was riled by “New Dress,” a politically charged track criticizing the cult of celebrity over real world problems, the trend that has obviously worsened in 30 years, and its lyrics still ring incredibly true today:
You can’t change the world
But you can change the facts
When you change the facts
You change points of view
When you change points of view
You may change a vote
And when you change a vote
You may change the world
My friend Carrie and I saw Depeche Mode while they were on tour for Black Celebration on June 22nd of ‘86 outside of Chicago at the Poplar Creek Music Theater. My dad and grandpa drove us there from Wisconsin in my grandpa’s motorhome and they hung out in the parking lot while Carrie and I went to the show (Book of Love opened). We bought a concert program (are those still a thing?) and both DM and Book of Love t-shirts, my Depeche Mode t-shirt taken by some boy or other later that summer, which I’m still kinda pissed about. But I wore The Book of Love shirt until it disintegrated.
“The downside is that somehow these forerunners seem to fade from the public mind. I’m always appalled when I see an article that makes it look like women and/or people of color have just arrived on the scene of fantasy and science fiction, particularly when those articles forget to mention folks who have won major awards in the field. Isn’t that what awards are for? To create some kind of historical record? I don’t know. The amnesia is so hard to account for, I can’t help but see it as willful, a deliberate unseeing. And that’s a problem, because it means that no matter how much we write and publish and succeed, we will continue to be seen as “emerging” — that is, historically unimportant, marginal.”
- At Weird Sister, Kati Heng interviews Sofia Samatar about fantasy, world-building, and the many forgotten non-white, non-male fantasy writers. (via therumpus)
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Costume Design: Irene (uncredited)
Art Direction: Lyle Wheeler
Overwhelming darkness, weak daylight access through enormous windows, shaped shadows and dark toned costumes everywhere! (got a bit excited there); provide a lovely Gothic sense, not too predictable yet oh so inspiring.
Academy award winner:
Best Picture – Selznick International Pictures – David O. Selznick
Best Cinematography, Black and White – George Barnes
A dear friend once said to me, in a big conversation about life, “I made the decisions I made.” And I think of it all the time as a brave kind of self-reckoning and try to emulate it as I get older in not looking so much over my shoulder and thinking how I could have done things differently. With big things, and then with *very, very, very small things.*
Up to and including: I should have started the black beans for that chili soaking last night. But I didn’t. I made the decisions I made and went to bed.Add a Comment
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kaylapocalypse: Im like wheezing oh my god. This rather off center description of Lord Byron and his (temporary) physician is absolutely fantastically hilarious. Im so pleased. Definitely a worthwhile read.
How To Be A Monster: Life Lessons From Lord Byron
Carrie Frye March 15, 2013
In 1816, a young doctor named John Polidori was offered the position as traveling physician to George Gordon, Lord Byron.
Polidori was saturnine, caustic, ambitious, well-educated and handsome. He had graduated from medical school at 19 (as unusual then as now) and this offer came not a year later. Over the objections of his family, he accepted. Polidori had literary ambitions; here was an amazingly famous poet asking him to join him on a tour of the Continent.
It must have felt like fate was tugging him along. In confirmation of how well things were going, a publisher offered him 500 pounds to keep a diary of his travels with the poet (500 pounds… in 1816).
It was spring. Byron was leaving England forever, a cloud of infamy hanging over him. (He is one of the few people you can write something like that about and have it be true; that is part of why he’s so satisfying.)
He had a carriage made, modeled after Napoleon’s, this a measure of his own sense of emperor-like preeminence in the world. Byron was, even by the standards of the time, a chronic overpacker: china, books, clothing, bedding, pistols, a dog, the dog’s special mat, more books, a servant or two, and Polidori, buzzing like some excited insect, were all packed away. (One account has a peacock and a monkey making the trip too.)
The carriage was so overloaded it kept breaking down. The doctor kept breaking down too, with spells of dizziness and fainting, and the patient had to look after him. They progressed this way through Belgium and then up the Rhine. When they reached their hotel in Geneva, Byron listed his age in the hotel registry as “100.”
If you have any interest in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or vampires or Romantic poets or, who knows, Swiss tourism, you’ve most likely read Polidori’s name.
He’s a curio, Polly Dolly, most notable not for what he wrote but for being nearby when other people wrote things. It’s a strange afterlife; to think you’ve landed a leading role, and then there you are, on stage, sure, and with big names too, but fixed to a mark far upstage and over to the left, near the wings, in the half-dark where the spotlight doesn’t quite reach. “Poor Polidori.” That’s how Mary Shelley referred to him, writing years later. And he was. Here is how he creeps into letters, like this one written by Byron: “Dr. Polidori is not here, but at Diodati, left behind in hospital with a sprained ankle, which he acquired in tumbling from a wall—he can’t jump.”
It was John Polidori’s misfortune to be comic without having a sense of humor, to wish to be a great writer but to be a terrible one, to be unusually bright but surrounded for one summer by people who were titanically brighter, and to have just enough of an awareness of all of this to make him perpetually uneasy. Also, he couldn’t jump. Poor Polidori.
One short story he wrote, though, remains important, a vampire story that was read across Europe when it came out and led the way to Dracula. But even that story was not all Polidori’s own. In a nice bit of literary vampiricism, he fed off a sketch by Byron to write it and the story was first published under Byron’s name (hence all the attention it got), so he’s instructive, too, as a reminder of all that writers and vampires have in common…
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“It was like wandering blind into a storm. I moved to Los Angeles, where I really just sort of rested for a few months, read things, and went to parties and libraries and tried to put my head together again. When I ran out of money, I moved to my Mom’s in Maine, Charles D’Ambrosio-style, writing in her basement every morning starting at 5 a.m., taking a break for Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns at 11 a.m. and making an early lunch before working more. It was like the weirdest saddest colony stay, about three months.”
My mom’s hosting her bookclub in Auburn, Indiana, today for the first time. Here are her cups set out last night in preparation – a lot of these belonged to my great-grandmother who lived on a farm not far away. The club is called the Ladies’ Literary Club of Auburn & was founded in 1882 (!!!).
(She’s so nervous! She has a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates set up where the women can see it when they come in too. Hee!)Add a Comment
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(image credit to Dan Hoare on twitter)
I ONLY JUST LEARNED ABOUT THE EXISTENCE OF THIS MUSHROOM????? WHICH ERUPTS FROM AN EGG BEFORE UNCURLING HELLISH ARMS, EXPOSING ITS STICKY MASS OF SPORES TO BE SPREAD BY FLIES ATTRACTED BY THE SCENT OF ROTTING FLESH???
Admittedly, I am easily won over by all organisms that attract flies with the scent of rotting flesh. But the octopus stinkhorn (Clathrus archeri) also has tentacles, a freaky egg stage, and blackish goop, so it’s my favorite now.
We’ve been doing a significant amount of reorganization over at the Vault and in the process I stumbled across a folder for which I’ve been searching for years. In it I found the results of a dot matrix printed Duran Duran survey I wrote for a Duranie party hosted sometime during 1985 by my friend Allyson (her survey is the second pictured above - she loves John - and helpfully gave me suggestions for revamping the survey which I must have done at some point). The girls who filled out these surveys were between 13-15 years old, which is fairly obvious when you read them. I cannot believe I said I didn’t like Power Station! (Mine is the first one pictured - I love Simon! I think I was just pissed at John and Andy for temporarily leaving Duran Duran). And that my friend Angela (she’s the one who likes Andy) doesn’t like Arcadia but loves Power Station (probably for the same reasons as me). The nicknames that we chose! That was TOTALLY a thing - choosing special Duranie names to call ourselves and finding Duranie penpals so we could write to other nuts like ourselves from around the world.
The last two scans are the list of Allyson’s Duran vinyl collection as of September 4th, 1985. Impressive! I was hardcore jealous of her albums, especially the 12″ singles.
A few years ago, I co-wrote an article for The Awl with my friends Sarah and Allyson about the Duran Duran party that Allyson hosted in 1984. The article mentioned surveys we’d filled out the night of the party as well as an epic mix that Sarah and ALlyson created one feverish weekend, and other important artifacts considered long-lost. I’M SO GLAD THESE IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS HAVE BEEN UNEARTHED!!!
My survey is the third one down. It says that John is my favorite member, which is strange because it was almost always Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick. The heart is fickle!Add a Comment
Our puppy Carmella—now eight months and actually not so much a puppy anymore as a tween dog—had two “spells” in the past few weeks. After the first one, the vets thought she’d ingested something poisonous—she’s a puppy forest-filth hoover. After the second one, they agreed that something neurological was happening. (Her stuff last summer was probably unrelated, but if you’ve been following her various health things, yes, she has been racking up a lot of emergency vet visits! And yes, I’ve been eating a lot of Tums!)
She saw her regular vet this morning and he’s treating/ screening from two angles, tick-related diseases and epilepsy, the latter common in border collies. Her “spells” aren’t quite like classic seizures, which is why it looked like she’d gotten into something toxic at first. She gets dopey and unresponsive, unsteady on her feet, and has tremors—then gradually returns to normal. 24 hours later: full rascal again. So if these are seizures, they’re partial.
I’m glad to have a plan and feel hopeful and glad. Carmella’s the sweetest rascal devil-dog you could ever hope to meet. There is a guy from Boston we see on our walks who stops to say, “Hi pup,” and “How are you, pup, you’re getting bigger,” and it’s always like having JFK comment on your dog, and I’d like a lot more of that in the future.Add a Comment
[After an interregnum of two years and a half, George Sand comes across her mislaid notebook and recalls that she once intended to keep a continuous journal. The solitude which conduces to introspective writing had been broken by her stay in Majorca with Chopin. She has but lately returned to Nohant. During her absence the notebook had evidently been carried to the attic. She resumes the journal in a cheerful mood.]
–Do tell me, why haven’t you gone on with your journal? (Probably it is Monsieur Three Stars or Madame So-and-So or Mesdemoiselles X.Y.Z. who ask me this question).
–What? You have carelessly mislaid a book as rare, precious and original as that?
–Even so. And my book is as well bound as it is carefully edited. In fact, the contents are as valuable as the cover.
–Don’t joke about anything as important as your notebook. I’m sure it is a work of art.
–Ah, you say that to the author!
–Indeed I wish I had found it myself. I would never have given it back to you.
–What the devil would you have done with it?
–I would have cut out all the autographs to paste in my album.
–I don’t understand what you mean.
–Doesn’t your book contain scraps of handwriting by the various authors, artists, politicians and prominent assassins?
–Yes, I have some rather literary letters, but why do you want them?
–To show that I own them.
–Oh, I understand!
–Besides, why should you wish to keep them for yourself?
–Well, the handwriting helps me to judge people’s characters.
–Can you really read character from handwriting?
–Yes, I make a success of it when I know beforehand what the handwriting should prove.
–What would you say of your own?
–My own? I would describe it as tired writing.
–And you conclude?
–That it is the writing of a tired person.
–Is that all?
–Isn’t that enough?
–But of what is the person tired?
–Can’t you imagine that one may be tired of many things? Tired of getting up every morning, tired of going to bed every night, tired of being hot all summer and cold all winter, tired of hearing innumerable questions asked and never one that is worth answering–”
- The above annotation and translation of this edition of Sand’s journals are the work of Marie Jenney Howe, the women’s suffrage activist and author of the biography George Sand, The Search for Love. I love Sand’s journals more than I love any of her other writing possibly. They were just one of the resources I used in researching my upcoming novel, The Queen of the Night. (via alexanderchee) Add a Comment
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“But as for me, if all the features that I had assimilated from him had once seemed to me lovable, how, now that they no longer seemed lovable, was I going to tear them out of me? How could I scrape them definitively off of my body, my mind, without finding that I had in the process scraped away myself?”
–Elena Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment
“I’m praying no one comes into my office and sees this index card, even though if you squint maybe it sounds like Jenny Holzer instead of a Tumblr teen. I feel a lot like a Tumblr teen lately, what with all the incense and the journaling and the, oh god, the affirmations.”
- Terrible Self-Help Book Actually Working on Me – The Cut (via rachelfershleiser)
“In general I’d rather talk about other people. Gossip, or as we gossips like to say, character analysis.” me too girl (via nahtoallthat)
me too girl
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Don’t surrender your loneliness
Let it cut more deep.
Let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can
Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes so soft,
My need of God
“Blackness is a technology in and of itself. The way we survive and thrive has always been contingent on building technologies against the system that sets us up to fail.”
- Kimberly Drew, Founder of @blackcontemporaryart in The Lenny Interview: Kimberly Drew, aka @MuseumMammy with Doreen St. Felix (via wavesoftware)
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Kate Winslet tearfully remembering Alan Rickman at London Critics Awards (x)
That’s fucking amazing I love it
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