Unlike England honoring the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen's death, Scotland apparently has no reason, no historical explanation for Scott making an appearance on their money. They just want him on it in abundance.
This isn't to say Scotland doesn't occasionally dig deep and honor other local writers. Mary Somerville, Norman MacCaig, Sorley MacLean, and Nan Shepherd have all been honored on a Scottish bank note. And at least half of those people were real writers, I swear.
Personally, I just think Sir Walter Scott's likeness on the £10 note looks strikingly like Joe Biden. If it's not Joe, get on it Scotland.
July is a big month for famous writers, and this year more than ever. Last week celebrated the 200th birthday of Henry David Thoreau, and this week celebrates (mourns?) the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen's death.
For a country that arguably has the most famous literary tradition in the western world, England is obsessed with Jane Austen more than any other writer these days. Case in point? The Bank of England has placed Jane Austen on not one, but two different pieces of currency. Even Queen Elizabeth has to be feeling the heat these days. She's getting bumped after all.
Apparently that's Jane Austen's profile. ((shrug))
Today, a £10 note featuring the writer was revealed. It'll go into wide distribution in mid-September. This follows the Bank of England also placing Austen on its £2 coin, which they've already released, but only in Winchester and Basingstoke, which have connections to the author. Like the £10 note, the coin will gain wide distribution in the months to come.
Poor Shakespeare, though. The guy is possibly the world's most famous writer and he can't even get his mug on a five pence coin.
Glorified daycare (a.k.a. preschool) in Manhattan has become a wannabe caste system say experts, where the wealthiest of locals have taken the admittance of their 2-year old to private preschools as intensely as college applications.
"It was totally insane, but I live here, and I had to accept that it's part of the system if I wanted to send Zee to a private school," Canadian writer Judy Batalion tells CNN Money, apparently unaware how totally insane she sounds.
Indeed, CNN dives down the rabbit hole of private preschool in Manhattan, detailing a world of private school admissions consultants who charge $15,000-$30,000, tuitions up to $40,000, and parents requesting letters of recommendation from former President Bill Clinton, and one asking for the same from the Pope.
Says one adviser, "I've seen people tell the school they're Navaho (sic), when they're like 1/36th," she said. "It's a nuthouse."
Damn straight. Everyone knows to claim you're Cherokee first.
How would Clinton or the Pope write a letter of recommendation for a 2-year old? Where would they start? "This toddler has fine-tuned their motor skills to eat birthday cake like most 3-year olds--even better than some 4-year olds." Or "I was amazed at this toddler's ability to nap on cue like a narcoleptic on Ambien." Where, for example, would the Pope go with such a letter? Would he suggest Jesus recommends the toddler, too? "I think it's safe to say Jesus knows everything, and even Jesus knows this toddler was meant for this preschool."
By the way, apparently the Pope never answered that request. Because, you know, the Pope isn't insane.
You know when someone says they'll pick up the tab at dinner at a fancy restaurant and then stiffs you later claiming they don't have their credit card on them? Yeah, this is kind of like that.
Centre College had planned to use the money every year to offer
full-ride tuition scholarships to forty students. That idea is now canceled.
A. Eugene Brockman is long dead, but his son had no comment to the AP about the alleged bait-and-switch from the trust. All that is reported is that a "significant capital event" placed pressure on the college to structure the gift in time, which apparently didn't happen.
The college states it is "not happy, in any shape or form," and that the gift was withdrawn "for reasons unknown to the college."
Meanwhile, the A. Eugene Brockman Charitable Trust said in a brief statement that "[T]his is between the trust and the college."
Sounds like a classic, American divorce story, minus the whole messy custody battle.
For about five minutes the kid was really popular until the principal took the backpack o' cash and called the cops.
Police and school officials have no comment on where the student found that kind of coin, other than it probably came from a neighbor's child who took it from their own home. We're left to draw our own conclusions of the money's origins before that.
In other breaking news developments: 12-year olds and illicit crack money never sounded so cute!
In 2016, Mark Twain will appear on special commemorative $1 and $5 coins, which will be worth their face value--and can be purchased at a surcharge. The profits made from the surcharge will benefit a variety of Twain-related museums and historical locations.
The coins will look great next to my commemorative Sylvia Plath bell jar collection.
This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.
The book: Virginia Woolf's Jacob's Room.
Great news if you're a masochist and have always felt like James Joyce's Ulysses was a casual read that cut corners and was too approachable. Virginia Woolf is here to make sure all your dreams of incomprehensible plot are possible.
Jacob's Room reads like how a conversation with a four year old hopped-up on Swizzle Sticks goes down. One moment you're talking about Transformers and Handy Manny, the next you're suddenly stuffing 37 marshmallows in your mouth and randomly throwing toys into the toilet. And to the four year old this is a natural progression of a conversation.
That's how Jacob's Room operates. At some point your brain just tried to squeeze 37 marshmallows into it and is now ODing on the Disney Channel.
Alongside a book by Ptolemy, a first folio of Shakespeare, a first edition of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, a Gutenburg Bible, and Leonard da Vinci's Codex Leicester, somehow there's a book by JK Rowling on the list.
The drawing, seen here, is widely known. It's also one of four interpretations of "The Scream," and the only version held in private hands. (The other three are in Norwegian museums.)
But unlike most paintings, Munch had a poem inspired by/inspiring the painting, which he wrote in the edges of the frame of the painting:
I was walking along the road with two friends. The Sun was setting –
The Sky turned a bloody red
And I felt a whiff of Melancholy – I stood
Still, deathly tired – over the blue-black
Fjord and City hung Blood and Tongues of Fire
My Friends walked on – I remained behind
– shivering with Anxiety – I felt the great Scream in Nature
Sounds like a blend between Emily Dickinson and Sarah McLachlan. Put a couple of sad looking cats and dogs in a montage, and we've got ourselves an ASPCA commercial.
I couldn't spend that sort of coin on Moby Dick TP. My buttocks deserve worse quality. Now, if Cormac McCarthy or Danzy Senna's books could be typed up on some Charmin, I might be interested.
As a side note for interested parties, The_Heppcat notes that he used Cottonelle. Criticial information for discriminating tastes.
This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.
The book: Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story.
[30 pages in]: Okay, a little funny. Fast paced, a bit unique. Lenny is whiny, but I can live with it.
[75 pages in]: Eunice is...unpleasant.
[110 pages in]: "Funny" is now on the side of a milk carton.
[145 pages in]: The last funny guy named Lenny was Lenny Bruce. And he's dead.
[210 pages in]: Is this supposed to be the blending of Fahrenheit 451 and 1984, or just the bastard of a blog entry and a Tiny Tim song?
[265 pages in]: I think Shteyngart is repeating paragraphs.
This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.
The book: Danzy Senna's Caucasia.
So Senna writes her own life, fictionalizes 5% of it, adds an addicted retail/consumer/commodification tick to her writing style, all under the guise of racial identity in America--and it's mind-blowing to people.
Put another way, Caucasia's writing style is the illegitimate love child of an 8th grade poetry class and a Walmart commercial.
I've seen better symbolism and metaphorical imagery in the short stories of a 10 year old girl hopped-up on Beiber.
Man, I sound bitter up there, don't I? I mean, don't get me wrong--I hate the book. It somehow makes Cormac McCarthy look decisive by comparison. But my tone comes across a little rough, doesn't it? Do me a favor and read the review to yourself again in a chipper, upbeat tone. Now it sounds like I just hate the book--but with a certain delightfulness, right?
Anna Alaburda had some big dreams, and those big dreams involved a lot of money.
She heard lawyers make some serious coin, so she decided to go to law school. According to her, she picked her law school based on advertised rates by the school of employment after graduation.
Those rates? 70%.
When Anna graduated with a law degree, well, she didn't find a job too quickly. In fact, she didn't find one at all that channeled the spirit of Perry Mason or Matlock. Little did Anna know that the 70% statistic didn't include only attorney jobs, but that it did include part-time gigs doing a myriad of employment possibilities.You know those old people that greet you at Wal-Mart? Yeah, like those jobs.
So, Anna did the most American thing she could think of that also involved her career aspirations: she sued her law school for $50 million dollars, claiming the school falsified its employment numbers.
It should be noted that the law school she went to was called Thomas Jefferson School of Law. Now, no offense, but that's like getting a degree in architecture at the Bob Villa School of Old Home Repair (sponsored by Craftsman) and then getting totally irked that you can't get a reputable architectural job out of it.
On the bright side, at least with her lawsuit she'll finally get to see what the inside of a courtroom looks like.
This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.
The book: Chang-rae Lee's A Gesture Life.
Review:
Award Winner:Most Uncomfortable Attempt at a Sex Scene
Award Winner:Most Forgettable Main Character
Award Winner:Most Flippant Attitude to War
Award Winner: Least Realistic Portrayal of Family Reunion
Award Winner:Best Head-Scratching Use of an Abortion in a Novel
Award Winner: I Can't Believe I Paid Full Price for This Book
...where the joke's on them, as college will suck that savings account dry.
Ahh, I kid 'cause I care!
(No, really, it's gone.)
According to a report by the College Savings Initiative, if little Johnny or Suzy wander down to their local neighborhood bank (ha!) with their piggy bank and open a savings account, they're six times more likely to attend college.
That's all. Not that they actually have a really bloated savings account. Not that they open a 401k plan. Not that there are thousands in the bank from a really stellar summer at the lemonade stand. Just that there is a savings account in existence.
That seems a little weak for a study. It's the equivalent of having the American Dental Association say just having a toothbrush in the home means you're six times more likely to visit the dentist. Not that you actually brush your teeth. Not that you use Listerine. Not that you avoid sugary drinks. Just that a toothbrush exists in a bathroom cabinet somewhere. You're cutting a pretty wide swath with that definition then, no?
But if that's all it takes to make blanket statements in life, I'll say this:
If you're reading a blog at this very instant, you're 1,000 times more likely to be reading this one.
Rumor has it that writers occasionally become celebrities. Like Stephen King and someone else, undoubtedly, that is so famous I can't recall them right now.
The reasoning for Snooki's extra two grand? She actually answers questions from the audience and talks with people. Toni Morrison refuses.
That's because Toni Morrison is just living up to the stereotype that writers are really socially awkward talking with people and/or pompous individuals. Which is hard to believe, because Toni Morrison has always seemed so relatable to...someone.
Not me, though. I send my man servant off to answer all letters sent to this blog. The little people mean a lot.
Soap operas are often known for some of the greatest writing modern civilization has ever known. Would Shakespeare have been a writer for daytime television? Most likely, once he learned the art of nuance.
That's where the Days of Our Lives screenwriter comes in. (You'll find him sobbing at his keyboard.) He's been asked to drop product advertisements right in the middle of his screenplays in the most subtle way possible.
Such as for Wanchai Ferry Chinese Food:
Did grandma just say it has rice, so it'll fill me up? Well, you don't need to twist my arm. As long as she's dishing out seconds, I'm game.
But did someone just mention ChexMix?
The real concern here is why the blond actress is whipping out the Ken's Salad Dressing to serve with the ChexMix. Now, I'm no culinary master, but I tend to prefer ChexMix without some raspberry vinaigrette. A million and one flavors in your mouth might be one flavor too many.
But if you don't feel like eating ChexMix, how about some snacks for the kiddies?
That kid just guaranteed herself a future in the unemployment line. Flubbing lines is one thing. Flubbing lines for a product placement is another.
Maybe she would have done better if she filled herself up with some Cheerios:
That's right--the easiest way to romance is through a box of whole grain oats. Whenever I start a new relationship, I often woo the ladies with some cold cereal. If they play hard to get, I might then dip into some Cream of Wheat.
Eventually your looks wear off and Father Time comes a-knockin'. That doesn't mean you can't keep Cheerios in your life though:
Hmm, it seems that Anderson fella doesn't care about his heart health. Cholesterol is his best friend. I'm just calling it now: when Anderson dies from a heart attack, a character will lean over his casket snacking on Cheerios, sobbing, trying to compose themselves, saying, "He'd have been alive today if...he...((bites their lip and grabs a handful of cereal))...if...he...just ate more Cheerios."
And if you're in a bad mood? Well, sorry. Cheerios can only do so much magic. That's when you need to hit the hard stuff:
Tell me about it. I'm a busy guy between grad school and work. Seems to me Midol is what I'm missing. She's sold me!
This will be the first of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.
First up: Cormac McCarthy's The Road.
Review:
Really? Really now? I just read 280 pages for that? People walking in an ashtray of life? Thanks for the ambiguity. I loved how you left everything wide open and couldn't make a hard decision in the book, Cormac. My grandmother would've called you indecisive and then slapped you off the back of the head. Seriously, next time try to make up your mind and decide on something. No character names...no development...no plot details...no explanations. No problem, I guess. Since you didn't decide on anything, Cormac, you didn't have to worry about writing much of a story.
Here's the entire story in amazing, pin-point detail: A father and son walk in a world of ashes. Pop is pissy. Son is sweet. Pop gets a cough and dies. Son goes off with another man and keeps walking. The end.
With all the ashes in the story the book was as much an anti-smoking advertisement than a book. Joe Camel is probably more disappointed than I am. The Marlboro Man is probably weeping an emphasematic cry of sadness, too. And so am I, and I don't even smoke.
