from Saturday, November1st of the year2008.
I don’t normally like reading detailed accounts about war; I’ve never been into that whole department of bookstores where you can buy entire 700-page tomes about, you know, the Battle of ThermopylÃ¦, or Dunkirk. I think I’m just not wired properly. In any event, I read this thing in the New York Times this morning and found it kind of touching. Essentially, at an army outpost in Nuristan, a piece of shrapnel hit a cook, and all the other men on the base ran to help him and get him to safety. The piece is solid; I felt, as the saying goes, “as if I hat bin thurr.” But how come articles that want themselves a Pulitzer always use the same awkward halting style:
If there is any universal and binding compact among military men under fire, it is this: If you are hit, we will come to get you. Among units that endure, it is a pledge more inviolable than law. And it comes with a corollary. You will do the same for me.
There is something inherently offensive to me about the period between the last two sentences, especially if you read it aloud. Try it out. Isn’t it mad awkward? Anyway, read the article. Good story. Now, if you want to talk about something amazing in the Times, please allow me to be the first to refer you to this unbelievably well-written and touching and hilarious article about the potential closing of the venerable lesbian bar Rubyfruit. This article is great because the language bears the traces of insiders to the community it is describing, as well as enough details to keep people who don’t happen to be 50-year old lesbians engaged. My roommate, when she read it, emailed me and was like, “you have to make sure that you read every single word of this shit.” Quite so: by the third internet page of the article, you get paragraphs like:
On a Sunday evening, the night before Rubyfruit shut down for renovations, Ms. Fierro held a party. By early evening, the place was filled with young women dancing and kissing. It was a striking change from the usual mellowness and the spare, slightly older crowd the space usually accommodated. As music pulsed, Ms. Ledwith stood on the bar and poured orange-flavored vodka into the open mouths of young women who, with their necks craned and tilted in expectation, resembled a cluster of chic baby birds.
Or, my personal favorite:
Because no employee was tall enough to turn on the ceiling-mounted projector, a large rainbow flag was retrieved from a corner office, and a worker jabbed the staff of the flag toward the ceiling in search of the “on” button.
I am completely freaked out that I’m going to be in London during the election! I woted early, but ajhfd647khfnÃ¤! GrÃÃ°Ð¯8357kÃ¾Ã¾Ã¾! Ø´eyurgurn! Etc. I am looking for a Safe Space in which to watch this thing, which will be at, like, 5 in the morning London Time. SÃ»fkejrwk3.