1. Brown County, Minnesota
2. Brown County, Minnesota
3. Brown County, Minnesota
4. Brown County, Minnesota
5. Brown County, Minnesota
6. Brown County, Minnesota
7. Unknown county, Minnesota
8. Unknown county, Pennsylvania
- Me: I've got a joke for you, Dad. So this grasshopper walks into a bar, and the bartender says, "Hey! We've got a drink named after you!" The grasshopper says, "You've got a drink named Steve?"
- Dad: That's a little lame. He should say, "You've got a drink named Grady?"
- Me: I don't get it.
- Dad: You know, like, Grady Grasshopper. Instead of Steve. Just get a little something going there.
It’s funny how when you’re in an unhealthy relationship, it seems totally unique—you tell yourself that no one else really understands your partner, and that’s why they’re all telling you to run like hell. But then once you’re out of it, you read about other unhealthy relationships and see the same patterns recurring again and again and again and you’re like, shit, how did I not see that? But you didn’t, and neither did I.
When I was going through my version of this, my ex did something or other that I found absolutely shocking and heart-stopping, but my roommate—who’d already been through that wringer—just shook her head. Referring to my then-girlfriend, my roommate said, “She’s so fucking predictable.”
by Ruth Curry
“You had better STOP that SHIT. You don’t know THE STREET. They will eat you alive. You think you’re going to get away with THAT SHIT? Do you know what’s going to happen to you? You’re going to get FUCKED UP THE ASS. Let me tell you something before you let some man fuck you up the ass: You make sure he LOVES YOU.” – Emily Carter, “The Bride,” Glory Goes and Gets Some
The first time I read this I was twenty-one years old. I was an intern at a small press in Minneapolis, and reading this story collection was one of my first assignments there. It had just been published. Chris, the editor-in-chief, wanted me to get a feel for the kind of books Coffee House did. In this passage, a random barback lectures the protagonist Glory— a nice Upper East Side Jewish girl and a heroin addict—about the things she’s doing to feed her addiction.
I was shocked by these lines in the way only a nice Midwestern girl raised by fundamentalist Christian parents could be. I had landed this internship in part because I was as clean-cut, as punctual, as good-spirited and enthusiastic, as high-achieving as they come. I had been a Bible Quiz champion, for god’s sake. I mean, my friends and I joked about my Illinois State Bible Quiz Champion crown while too underagedly-drunk to stand, but still. Fucked up the ASS?
E-mail from Dad to his friends:
E-mail from one of my friends:
The New York Times magazine picked Caitlin Flanagan’s “The Glory of Oprah” as one of their top #longreads of 2011. This is the third-to-last paragraph and so it’s really not fair for me to quote it out of context since it elaborates on and completes thoughts she’s been weaving through the piece.
Or maybe it is fair to quote it out of context. Maybe what’s really unfair is for Flanagan to spend the rest of the piece casting a diabolical spell with her wit and flawless style and perfect innate balance between pathos and humor, so that when you get to this paragraph and its galling, risible gender essentialism, you are inclined not to throw down the magazine or close the tab in disgust, but to nod, narcotized by her smooth sentences, and agree. Of course all men are one way and all women are another way, nature has made them that way, not culture. Want … soap …
Shake it off, readers! Don’t let her win! Caitlin Flanagan is a DANGEROUS LUNATIC and WE MUST NEVER ALLOW OURSELVES TO FORGET THAT, NO MATTER HOW FUNNY AND CONVINCING SHE IS! AUGHH!
Oof, I seem to have overexerted myself. Can I have a fresh towel?
Malcolm Gladwell makes me similarly uneasy. He can make even smart, informed people completely believe theories that he pretty much just pulls out of his ass.