It's Fuck Books Friday.
Any thinking person should oppose the smug ignorance of fundamental ontological questions that characterizes today’s atheism at least as strongly as she opposes the historical tragedy of religious literalism.
Michael Robbins, Link
Instead of packing a lecture hall to cheer for the single most popular person in a group, what if we all just did E and rolled on the floor in each other’s arms, suffused with a mutual joy at the nobleness of our shared struggle to create beauty and truth?
(The Different Types of People There Are on the Internet)
People Who Are Dads
Dads use Internet Explorer and have not installed flash. Dads think Firefox and Mozilla are rock bands or street gangs. Dads never empty their Recycle Bin so that a .jpeg entitled IMG_0549 of Dad from circa 2001 holding a 7.25 lbs. trout forever resides in both one’s mind and said bin. Dads use Bing because it’s the default search engine on their PC, which they got at CostCo. Dads actually say “www” before the name of the website. Dads got their cookies all over homedepot.com comparing lawnmower prices. Dads got their cookies all the fuck over macys.com shopping for fleece and slippers. Dads got their cookies all over redtube.com barely DSL-streaming hentai porn asking “what the hell is this?” inside their “computer room” at night while Moms are applying moisturizer to their brittle faces. Dads’ mousepads are Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore motif(s), purchased in the gift shop, along with beef jerky and Snapple for the long ride back. Dads go to “www” YouTube “dot com” to find out what the big fuss is, and while confronted by a Lady Gaga or Björk video, say “this woman clearly has a problem.” Dads got McAfee Security Scan popping up from the porn, which uses big time CPU and slows everything down, so Dads get upset asking “what the hell is wrong with this thing?” So then Dads go to CostCo the next week, or month, for a new computer saying to the youngster working minimum wage that he knows times are a changin’ and where are the Dell computers, you know, the ones that came out last year, and are on sale.
Jimmy Chen, Link
(Things You'll Miss About College)
You’ll miss being told what books to read and discovering your favorite writer in the process. You’ll miss hearing that one lecture that changed your life forever. You’ll miss idealism peppered with apathy.
Ryan O'Connell, Link
Nobody who reads the book is going to turn overnight into a French cook who does no other kind of cooking...We are all going to do a lot of American cooking all our lives. But when we cook French, we want a clear uncluttered classic line and no compromises. Here it is, girls, take it or leave it ... I know ... this kind of cooking, this kind of eating, this kind of life is on its way out. But let's preserve what we can of it, for as long as we can, before we are all reduced to proteins grown in shallow sea-water.
Avis DeVoto in a letter to Julia Child, Link
The ability to construct a computer from various circuit boards is an intellectual challenge. The reward for knowing how to hook a modem up to a DOS prompt was to be granted access to a world where people recognized my Star Trek references.
Llewellyn Hinkes, Link
And apparently I find Sam Biddle absolutely hilarious:
Colleges have become far too business-minded, to an extent that really disgusts and worries me...Rather than cultivating intellect—which can be applied flexibly, far outside of academia—I’m afraid colleges are going to start to turn into a place to pick up a white-collar trade.
Sometimes my employed friends remark, charitably, how nice it must be to be without a job and free during the day, and walk wherever and whenever I want. To be free! A comment analogous to saying how nice it must be to have no hands, what with saving so much on the cost of mittens and all.
In the months before I graduated, I would often wake up before dawn under a swell of anxious terror as I considered the community I was about to be released from. Demographically, college is for the most part a den of America's worst-east coast ids in sweatpants and uggs. But miserable peers are still peers, and to be a man without context, a feckless monad without room numbers to memorize and quads to cut-this to me was exile.
I thought about the week before, to a night when K___ was promoting (a word, like networking, that means absolutely nothing and yet so many bad things) a party at a club by the High Line. Inside was another multitude, this one having spent its day working at a coveted internship, or for their mom's friend-exhausted, depleted, eager to preen and regenerate. Tall, proud, dumb looking boys leaned against their tables, faces puffing with drinks and the hope of licking someone.
Were you to transcribe the conversations taking place, they would all be typed out in Comic Sans. Nobody in New York ever wants to be where they are at any given moment, and so bars and clubs serve mostly as a loud, dark place to text other people and ask what they're up to. All mouths were constantly agape-I was greeted with a hoarse chorus of HeyyEyeyyHeyyyHeyyyyyyyyyy! Were I a CIA operative, this would be when I started desperately chomping at the emergency cyanide tablet wedged in my molars. This pack had networked well, and would now claim their prize. The song changed, and hundreds of thousands of girls threw their hands in the air. The jangling of bracelets quaked the room.
HAPPY WEEKEND. Whatever that is.