William Maxwell. William Maxwell does not suck. Former fiction editor of the New Yorker and a writer of prose that manages to be subtle yet prolific, Maxwell truly is underappreciated in my not so humble book. Seriously. Maxwell was also quite the fox in that entire tweedy, writerly, midcentury way that makes yours truly swoon. Yes, it is perfectly okay to feel that way about dead writers. Let's not even start with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Evelyn Waugh (minus the entire preachy, uptight, uberreligious thing). (Sidenote: if any of you lovelies know how to use the u with an umlaut or other diacritics when doing this bloggity business I would greatly appreciate it if you shared the wisdom.)
This dog, yes, specifically this dog (photo courtesy of some a person who would never use this sort of language: Martha) does not suck. In fact, if I could I would keep him as my own and name him something either pretentious (Charles-Henri) or precious (Cow, just Cow) and insist that he never leave my side. Okay, let us all admit, it is impossible to view that photograph and stay in a less that stellar mood. Ears! Look at the ears! Animal companionship does not suck.
This specific photograph of Randy Jackson (a Birthday Slut over a Dlisted) does not suck. Even though I do not watch American Idol nor do I have an affection for addressing people as 'dawg', this photograph has made my day. Hoorah for day making!
Ayelet Waldman's booklog is fabulous. I do not know how to photographically express the term "booklog" and I can't really do a screenshot because that would require technical knowledge of some sort (we'll get into the 'why Charlotte doesn't own a microwave or toaster' conversation later, promise) and I am sadly lacking in that department. So, we'll call this a twofer as neither Ayelet Waldman nor her booklog suck. She and I have startlingly similar taste in books and whenever I am hard up in the reading department and all of my friends seem to have caught the philistine bug and throw out recommendations that would require a lobotomy on my part in order for me to muster up even an ounce of appreciation, I flip through her archives and find something that hits the spot. And! She's married to a fabulous author in his own respect. This list seems suddenly ineloquent. Oh, well.
Apple's Genius playlist. I have never been and likely will never be a good playlist maker. Although, if a man were to ever make me a mixtape I would faint of happiness. If Genius made me dinner, talked about books with me and opened a jam jar, I would propose marriage on the spot. Apple really needs to get on that. . .
Even though they aren't together any longer, the Smiths still do not suck. While my musical taste tends to vary (heavy on the Sam Cooke and Charlie Parker lately, oddly) and through the years I have made quite a few missteps (I not only know all of the words to Oops...I Did It Again, I know the dance [hangs head]), I can at least say that I have good foundational tastes. Robert Smith and Morrissey are still the only men who understand me. That last tidbit does suck quite a bit, but the band doesn't.
These candles are lovely. Yes, they are pricey,which is offset by the fact that they have a 20 hour burn time. That's an eternity for candles, to me. I'm sure one of us is an expert and you are all ruffled and outraged at my ignorance. "How dare she make such silly assumptions! We must gather our torches and pitchforks!" "The twenty hour torches, or the forty hour?" and so on.
Waking up to rain does not suck. Unless you've just gotten your hair done, or are prone to frizz (raises hand) or live on the side of a dirt packed hill or something like that.
Waking at this ungodly hour does not suck. Being starving while you are up is. If you'll excuse me, I must forage for a breakfast that does not include toast or Fage yogurt. Class dismissed.
