Life May Be a Vale of Tears, but at Least We Have All That Dark Matter to Look Forward To

If you want to hold tight to your last vestige of childlike optimism and faith that humanity is headed in a good direction, I strongly advise you not to read the June issue of Harper's cover to cover.

If, on the other hand, you want to put your own petty beefs into some kind of perspective, have at 'er.

Inside Eudora Welty's Bedroom (and Other Places You Never Thought You'd See)

“This is the phone that William Faulkner was summoned to while working in the fields, to learn the news that he had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. The writing above the phone is Faulkner's informal address book, preserved in his own handwriting.”

Faulkner's home -- as well as the homes of other Southern literary giants Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor -- is featured in a series called "A Sense of Place" by photographer Susana Raab. What's even cooler is that you can buy some of these prints in her Etsy shop.

To be honest, as interesting as I find this series, the idea of my own bedroom being preserved as a shrine freaks me out a little. Like, I hope somebody at least hides the porn. That won't go over well with the more sensitive tourists.

(via Apartment Therapy)

I Love Lynda Barry So Much, It Hurts a Little

When Barry created her "100 Poses of Marlys" series several years ago, I ordered one of the pieces, sending in my order with a fan letter so gushingly effuse I'd be embarrassed about it now if it weren't for the fact that I meant -- and still mean -- every word.

I still have the letter Barry wrote me back (enclosed with my signed original of "Graceful Pose Marlys"). It's a real letter, not one of those depressing form deals, and Barry is every bit as warm and awesome as you'd expect her to be. I can't even hold it against her that her novel, Cruddy, may have permanently damaged me.

So of course I read this recent interview with Barry in The New York Times from start to finish. It's a nice write-up, even if they did use the word "spunky" to describe Marlys. It's kind of too bad that she's become so reclusive (she and her husband live on a dairy farm, growing most of their own food and even chopping their own wood for fuel), but hey, whatever makes her happy.

On the plus side for the rest of us, she has a new book coming out, What It Is, which explains her method of making drawings and stories. I'll be grabbing a copy, but what I really wish is that I could attend Barry's workshop, "Writing the Unthinkable":

Taking the workshop, which Ms. Barry teaches several times a year, is a bit like witnessing an endurance-performance piece. Aided by her assistant, Betty Bong (in reality, Kelly Hogan, a torch singer who lives in Chicago), Ms. Barry sings, tells jokes, acts out characters and even dances a creditably sensual hula, all while keeping up an apparently extemporaneous patter on subjects like brain science, her early boy-craziness, her admiration for Jimmy Carter and the joys of menopause.

As Marlys would say, daaang.

Why You Should Never Discuss the Classics with Preschoolers

"Why did Moby Dick want to wreck the Pequod?"
"Well, maybe it was because the Pequod hunted whales, and he didn't want to be hunted."
"Why did the Pequod hunt whales?"
"Because a long time ago, people used oil from whales for their lights and things."
"Why did they use oil from whales?"
"People hadn't discovered electricity yet. Remember when we talked about how lights use electricity?"
"Why didn't people discover electricity yet?"
"I guess because it just hadn't occurred to them."
"Why?"
"Well, I don't know. What do you think?"
"No, what do YOU think?"
"I'm kind of stumped, actually."
"Why are you stumped, actually?"

And then my head exploded. The end.

(This post would not have been possible without this fabulous pop-up edition of Moby-Dick, given to Sam by our good friend Shona. It's making me reconsider my hard-line stance against reading the unexpurgated version.)

For Doppelsis

I know, I know. I don't update this site, I don't return emails, I don't send pictures of the kids. Things have been pretty hectic, and I keep forgetting to pull out the camera. But if you want to know what Will looks like these days, this picture should give you a pretty good idea:

(More photos, plus heartwarming story, here.)

An Open Letter to Everyone Who Told Me Two Kids Are Almost as Easy as One

Dear fellow parents,

Please inspect your pants. I believe careful examination will reveal that they are on fire.

Love,
Me

So, What Did You Do for the Long Weekend?

Me? I went and had a baby. This one, to be specific:

Say howdy to William Falco. Feel free to call him Will. Some of you may be wondering if there's some deep literary significance to either of his given names, like his elder bro's. Literature is stuffed to the gills with Williams, of course... Shakespeare, Thackeray, Carlos Williams. I like those guys a lot, but I think that, deep down, I just like the fact that Will's name is both a verb and a noun. Though, given how hard I had to fight with myself not to title this post something like "Where There's a Will, There's a Way!" he may not thank me for this later.

As for Falco, that was the name of Rusty's grandfather, who brought his family from Italy to the New Country on a steamship at the turn of the century. A bit of an adventurer, which merits a naming, I think. Plus, if you think I'm missing out on a legitimate opportunity to name one of my offspring Falco, then you don't realize what a child of the '80s I truly am.

Posting has been sporadic lately, but now that I've got lots of free time for one-handed typing (whoa! deja vu!), you can expect to see a lot more of me 'round these parts.

And a happy day to you.

"I Hereby Claim This Female Reproductive System in the Name of... Me!"

Time to learn stuff!

Braxton Hicks contractions are named after John Braxton Hicks, an English doctor who, according to Wikipedia, "first described them" in 1872.

And also according to Wikipedia, the G-spot is named after the German gynaecologist Ernst Gräfenberg who "first hypothesized its existence" in 1944.

And the Skene's gland, the gland ostensibly responsible for the elusive female ejaculatory orgasm? Again we look to Wikipedia to learn that these glands are named after the physician who "described them first in Western medical literature," one Alexander Skene.

Note the operative word "first" in all these claims. Because I'm sure not a single woman in the history of humankind ever noticed any of these things about their own bodies until they were pointed out to them. They were probably too busy doing EVERYTHING ELSE.