On the one hand, it’s nice to see some dissention in the ranks of what constitutes “good” or “culture,” on the other, these poorly worded, grammatically incorrect, not-at-all-well-thought-out critiques are just…. well, crap. I have to admit to automatically clicking the “this comment was not helpful” button when I see something like this.

Worth taking a look at to see what others say about your own “sacred texts.” Click here.

From The Chronicle of Higher Education:

Is it possible that higher education might be the next bubble to burst? Some early warnings suggest that it could be.

With tuitions, fees, and room and board at dozens of colleges now reaching $50,000 a year, the ability to sustain private higher education for all but the very well-heeled is questionable. According to the National Center for Public Policy and Higher Education, over the past 25 years, average college tuition and fees have risen by 440 percent — more than four times the rate of inflation and almost twice the rate of medical care. Patrick M. Callan, the center’s president, has warned that low-income students will find college unaffordable.

Meanwhile, the middle class, which has paid for higher education in the past mainly by taking out loans, may now be precluded from doing so as the private student-loan market has all but dried up. In addition, endowment cushions that allowed colleges to engage in steep tuition discounting are gone. Declines in housing valuations are making it difficult for families to rely on home-equity loans for college financing. Even when the equity is there, parents are reluctant to further leverage themselves into a future where job security is uncertain.

Click here.

May 27, 2009
Alice Munro Wins the Man Booker International Prize
Filed under: Editorials — Pei-Ling @ 2:55 pm

Doesn’t everyone love Alice Munro?

Alice Munro was announced as the winner of the third Man Booker International Prize. The panel made this comment:

“Alice Munro is mostly known as a short story writer and yet she brings as much depth, wisdom and precision to every short story as most novelists bring to a lifetime of novels. To read Alice Munro is to learn something every time that you never thought of before.”

You can read more about the prize here.

A brief interview with Alice Munro from Random House is available here.

Hunkering Down
June/July preview» Despite the massive economic problems plaguing the newspaper business, some journalists refuse to scramble for the lifeboats.
By Beth Macy

There are days when I dream about quitting the newspaper business and opening my own coffee shop. I’d call it the Underdog Café. On rainy days, the lunch special would be tomato pie and biscuits. My lovable but dumb dog, Lucky, would bask in a pool of front-window light. Customers would feel so at home at the Underdog that sometimes – but not too often – they would forget to pay.

But the daydream always ends there, before the dinner menu is even sketched out.

For the full article, click here.

They’ve got what looks like an ongoing page of brief recommendation of books titled “The Last Book I Loved.” I’m always looking for recommendations that aren’t coming from Borders or B&N.

The following article was reprinted on the Rumpus website, and makes a nice connection to the article I posted on the work spaces of writers. I’ve found that I work quite well standing up, though that was from my past life as a graphic designer. I’m not sure about how well I’d do writing standing up. As I write this, I’m sitting on the couch, my netbook propped on a pillow on my lap.

To Sit, to Stand, to Write

by George Pendle

Ever since Nietzsche’s declaration, there has been some disagreement among writers, thinkers, doctors, and designers as to whether inspiration and creativity come from being seated and quiescent, or from being upright and vigorous.

One of the more curious denouncements to appear in Friedrich Nietzsche’s supremely truculent Twilight of the Idols (1888) is a brief but furious attack on the writing habits of Gustave Flaubert. In a letter to Guy de Maupassant, his protégé, Flaubert had made the seemingly innocuous statement: “One cannot think and write except when seated.”

The author of Madame Bovary (1856) had always been a sedentary sort and had previously informed Maupassant that “a civilized person needs much less locomotion than the doctors claim.” However, to Nietzsche’s ear, finely attuned to the slightest signs of cultural decadence, Flaubert’s admission was nothing less than an attack on the nature of creativity itself. “There I have caught you, nihilist!” he snapped triumphantly. “The sedentary life (das sitzfleisch—literally “sitting meat”) is the very sin against the Holy Spirit. Only thoughts reached by walking have value.”

To read the rest of this article, click here.

On this particular still night, 34 year-old Edwin Lujan was walking his wife’s AD/HD-afflicted Jack Russell Terrier , Cutie Pie. It was 9:52 pm. Edwin Lujan knew this because he kept checking his watch. He wanted to get home in time to watch The Simpsons reruns and the dog was not taking this walking endeavor seriously.

“Dammit, Cutie Pie!” he hissed. “Hurry up and poop!” He felt acutely embarrassed over calling the dog by its name and using the word ‘poop’ in public. He was mortified that one of the neighbors might have heard him. This was a transitional neighborhood in Albuquerque’s heights, primarily auto mechanics and construction foremen who were doing as well as most mid to upper-level management at other firms. Edwin, the manager of a temp-services office, was the only male on his street that did not work in the trades, and therefore felt inadequate. He stopped, listening quietly to hear if any of the neighbors were out, working on cars or just slurping beers in their yards.

Skish! He looked around frantically. Skish! There were no street lights here – he couldn’t see who was hissing to him. Skish-Skish! Ahead, a cinder block wall divided a neighbor’s yard from a bike path that ran along one of the city’s arroyos. Skish-Skish! He gingerly peaked around the corner. Two teenagers, known on the street as “Spud” and “Li’l Cheeto,” were busily tagging the wall with spray-paint. Skish-Skish! Cutie Pie barked. The teenagers turned to look at Edwin.

“Wuddafug you looking at?” one asked him. Edwin ignored the question. He was busy gazing in fear beyond the young men to a form moving from the shadows. The teenagers followed his gaze, turning around. The form carried a Mossberg 590 pump-action police-issue riot shotgun. And wore a mask. One of those halloween masks that just cover your eyes. He also wore a painters’ hat. And painter’s coveralls. And a cape. And, before anyone could laugh at his ridiculous appearance – chuck-CHUNK – he ripped off a perfectly executed one-handed cocking of the shotgun and leveled it at the boys. They stood motionless, staring at him. Then Li’l Cheeto started to step back. He spoke to his friend but his eyes stayed on the shotgun.

“He ain’t gonna do shit with that gun, Spud,” he whispered. “We can just walk aw-” The shotgun roared, blowing a small depression in the ground next to the no-longer-confidant teen’s feet. Edwin thought he would wet his pants, but managed to hold it in. Cutie Pie, however, jerked the leash free and ran for home. The form chambered another shell. He reached into a back pocket and withdrew two large zip-ties of the sort police use for temporary handcuffs.

“You,” he said, indicating Spud. “Tie your amigo’s wrists with this. And do it right.” When it was done, the form walked closer. The shotgun pointing at Spud, he forced the now bound Li’l Cheeto to his knees then pushed him over into a patch of dried goathead thorns. The young man howled. “Now you,” he said. “Face down, hands behind your head!” Spud did as he was told. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, the form knelt on the small of teenager’s back. He pulled both hands back and slipped the second zip-tie around Spud’s wrists and pulled it tight.

“OK, Rembrandts. Let’s take a look at your work.” From his belt he pulled a large 4-cell Maglite and focused it on the tagged wall.

“Citizen,” he said, calling to the dazed Edwin. “Citizen,” the form called again. “I’d like you to help me evaluate this artwork.” Edwin walked over and stood beside the masked man. The names “Spud” and “Li’l Cheeto” were scrawled on the wall. Somehow, “Spud” had been misspelled.

“You call that ‘art’?” the form asked Edwin Lujan.

“Not really. You?”

“Nope.” The form turned to the handcuffed boys. “The jury has spoken fellas. This show has closed.”

“What the hell?!” one of them yelped. “You can’t do this! You ain’t no cops!”

“No,” said the form. “I’m not the cops. I’m…” He paused for dramatic effect. “El Pintor!” From a pocket on the inside of his cape he withdrew a pair of swimmers goggles. With his toe he rolled the first tagger over on his back. He bent down and placed the goggles on Spud’s face.

“Wuddafug?!” yelled Spud. He couldn’t see anything. He could however hear the sound of a steel ball rattling back and forth inside of a can of paint. “What are you doing, sir?” he asked at little more quietly – and respectfully.

“I’d advise you to hold your breath,” said El Pintor. Spud did as he was told, just in time, as the vigilante started spraying the youth pink – bright, vivid, Barbie pink – from head to toe.

Ten minutes later, El Pintor helped the teens to their feet. “I hope you have learned your lesson about violating other people’s property,” he told them. They ran off, still cuffed.

“I can’t believe you actually painted them,” said an awestruck Edwin Lujan. “That was totally awesome!”

“Oh, I didn’t paint them,” said El Pintor.

“But, I saw the pink–” Edwin started to say.

“Paint’s too easy to clean off. No, that was a special industrial-grade dye. Completely harmless – aside from the social stigma of having bright pink skin for several months.”