Rainy Days and Mondays...
Little frum girl moves to Southern California and imagines she can have it all—life devoted to Torah, education, Ph.D., family (eventually), career, and then some ...
For anyone familiar with "The Boys on the Bus," Timothy Crouse's rollicking account of the reporters from papers large and small who provided blanket coverage of the 1972 presidential campaign — or with later accounts that noted the prominence of girls on the bus, and the swapping of typewriters for laptops by nerds on the bus — the presence of relatively few print reporters on the candidates' buses and planes this year is striking.
"There's nothing wrong with my head in the first place," he said to the judge, inserting a seven-letter epithet.
You probably can guess where I stand on this. Admittedly, I'm a biased party—a writer with a vendetta against words, is an archer who resents arrows, or a quarterback who begrudges pass patterns. I would speak in defense of virtually any word's right to be used in the proper context.
Repeat old post in new space. I still really, really need a rabbi. Argh.
I like the NY Times a lot. Enough that I pay a ridiculous amount of money to get it in hard copy every day. And I'm sure that the reporters and editors who work there are really very intelligent and talented. Maybe even some of the most intelligent and talented individuals in the field.
At least most of the time I'm sure of that.
Sometimes, like when I find this article on the front page, I really doubt these things. Did you know that there's this game called Scrabulous (a version of Scrabble) on Facebook (a social-networking site) that tons and tons of people play? Did you know that? Well, apparently the NY Times just figured it out.
Maybe I should just live in Brooklyn and write novels forever.
"Never before have we enjoyed such a bounty of villanelles about waiting for the F train."
Or I could just be their shrink.
"We need more Brooklyn-based shrinks for our artistically capable but mentally delicate scriveners. Do you know how much writing time is lost while taking the subway into Manhattan for a weekly tuneup? Who cries for these stillborn sestinas?"