People who read The New Yorker usually have a man servant named Jeeves, a son named Ambrose, and a summer home on the Vineyard with an ocean view and a property tax bill higher than you and I make combined in salary.
So consider me weirded out to see a friend forward me a story from The New Yorker website. I always assumed this friend was scraping to get by. Ramen noodle meals? No cable? Sneakers with holes in the soles? Lie, lie, lie.
Anyway, Michael Palin (or Eric Idle, I can't tell, really) from Monty Python fame wrote a quick funny-ha-ha about alternative scholarship. Who actually wrote Shakespeare's work? Who wrote Christopher Marlowe's? Who wrote anything?
Damned if I know. We're all so confused now by alternative scholarship ("Shakespeare was actually written by Bob the Butcher, from Westminster, circa 1603!") that I can only surmise this blog entry was written by a woman named Joanne who spends her days in a knitting circle.
