I was considering writing a story about cat eggs this evening, but instead we’re going to go for a little change of pace. Here’s a selection of things from my browser history today. If nothing else, it makes me feel better about not reading as many books as I used to, because clearly I still do a lot of reading–it’s just all online now.
This morning I learned that I am the sort of person who will read a 17-minute piece about typesetting and 1970s printing methods before even eating breakfast. This piece is fascinating, and I say that with all seriousness.
Even longer but also even better: “My Life In The Locker Room: A Female Sportswriter Remembers The Dicks.” (This one came post-breakfast but before I’d finished my tea.)
Long before I was allowed to eat fish with bones, could go all night without peeing in my bed, or understood Gilligan’s Island wasn’t real, I loved baseball. It’s the reason I’m a sportswriter, and I learned it from my dad. Back then, almost 30 years ago, passion for the national pastime was an heirloom fathers passed to their sons. But a little girl with blonde pin curls somehow slipped into the line of succession.
Turns out that the blobfish is only ugly because we take it out of its natural habitat:
If we put you 4,000 feet below the water your organs would be crushed and you’d probably be turned into some sort of paste. Meanwhile the blobfish would just look like…. well …a fish.
That Facebook privacy notice that’s going around again is an unnecessary lie. (Who writes these things? Is that a job? Can I have it?)
I feel like I have to defend frog eye salad, which I ate growing up and which has now been revealed as one of the most-searched unique Thanksgiving foods in several states (including Colorado, where I was born and my father was raised). I swear it’s delicious, even if it is basically a pasta-and-whipped-cream salad. (Or “salad,” if you will.)
Speaking of food from my childhood, an erstwhile tweet about rollmops sent me spinning into memories of sneaking chunks of pickled herring and salmon from the fridge at my grandparents’ timeshares. I don’t know why my grandfather brought these containers of pickled fish with him so many times, but that memory is imprinted on my tastebuds. I asked my sister if it would be weird to make pickled fish when I’m home for Christmas. Her response: “Well, ummm….. A little weird.” Yeah, that’s what I thought.
[Added at 9:55pm] Jacqueline Woodson writes about the greatest honor of her writing career thus far being marred by Daniel Handler’s racist joke:
In a few short words, the audience and I were asked to take a step back from everything I’ve ever written, a step back from the power and meaning of the National Book Award, lest we forget, lest I forget, where I came from.
Another longread, one that chipped away at my cold hard heart: “My Vassar College Faculty ID Makes Everything OK.”
I have a Vassar College Faculty ID. I write books that some people care about. I teach my students. I take care of my Grandma. I have more access to healthy choice than most of my cousins. And I, like a lot of you, am not OK. I am not subhuman. I am not superhuman. I am not a demon. I cannot walk through bullets. I am not a special nigger. I am not a fraud. I am not OK.
Finally, I saw Mockingjay last night and I’m just a little bit obsessed with the Lorde song that played over the credits:
(And yes, for my grandparents who always semi-jokingly ask if I actually do anything, I did do some homework today. Don’t worry.)