Truly Outrageous

Where do you go for vacation if you live in tropical paradise? Orange County, apparently. And no, I’m not kidding.

Anyway, I’m headed off for a long weekend tomorrow. While I’m gone, I’m sure, the Internet will provide you with good company. Here are a few recs:

New blog This Highway promises to be smart AND clever AND unpretentious reading. [Full disclosure: it's written by my poetry partner in crime, N.] Here’s a sample from her first post:

The New York Times published an interview with John Ashbery recently in which Ashbery said, “My own autobiography is so uninteresting to me I have always thought it surely wouldn’t interest anyone else.” He went on to explain that he always thought “other people would find it boring.” This disinclincation to write about the personal, to view the personal narrative as a kind of hubris, seems to underline many of my own concerns in writing. I’m drawn to narrative, both in my reading and my writing, but I struggle with how to make narrative compelling and not just an exercise in narcissism. So much narrative (my own included, though hopefully not always) seems to have a loud and strident I at the center of it, clamoring for attention, “wearing out its welcome,” as Ashberry says.

And yet - and yet I love stories. I love a huge, long chunk of complicated narrative with multiple characters and twists and turns. Though I’m embarassed to admit it, I’ve sometimes chosen among books based on the solid weight of a longer book, hoping that greater length will offer a more complete fictional world in which to immerse myself. I’m drawn to novels (this, this, and this, for example, and even this, surely the first truly deliciously trashy novel in English) and television (like this, this, and dear heaven am I excited for the return of this) that offer complex characters and narrative. If loving you is wrong, Dr Jack Shephard, I don’t want to be right.

On the slightly more decadent side of things, Momo and I have just discovered Confessions of a College Callgirl. Yeah, I know, there are millions of these out there, but girlfriend has a way with words:

At home I stood in the bathroom and looked into the mirror, waiting to feel different. “You are a whore,” I said to my reflection. The incantation meant nothing to me. ”You sell your body for money.” I expected to feel revulsion or a deep sense of shame, but the words were just words to me, no more powerful than, “I want Chinese for dinner.”

mediagirl offers up the Feminist Valentine Awards… of 2006. Now that’s procrastination! Brava!

Ilyka hates weddings. And Valentine’s Day. I swear, sometimes it’s like we’re the same person. For those who are also trying not to vomit on their coworkers’ Bouquets of Red Roses Which Required No Thought and Bare Minimum of Effort, Sylvia has come up with a list of alternatives for the holiday.

Quick! Change the subject! Crunk + Disorderly has some shots from the Prince: Pre-Fame exhibition in NYC.

A few other blogs for your education, edification and procrastination (oh yes I did):

the field negro - Smart analysis of race issues on and off the internets

Electric Warrior - My favoritest fashionista

Petite Anglaise - She’s British, she’s in Paris, and she’s hilarious

And on that note, I’m outtie.

PS - I know you saw it coming - KITTENS IN SLEEPING BAGS!

(People sure are goofy, no?)