In my experience, writers tend to be really good at the inside of their own heads and imaginary people, and a lot less good at the stuff going on outside, which means that quite often if you flirt with us we will completely fail to notice, leaving everybody involved slightly uncomfortable and more than slightly unlaid.
So I would suggest that any attempted seduction of a writer would probably go a great deal easier for all parties if you sent them a cheerful note saying “YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in.”
And alcohol may help, too. Or kissing. Many writers figure out that they’re being seduced or flirted with if someone is actually kissing them.
The FBI has arrested the San Francisco man they say ran Silk Road, the notorious underground digital bazaar that allowed traffickers to anonymously peddle heroin, cocaine and nearly anything else illegal.
With old cars, especially when you buy them second- hand and drive them for many years a love affair is inevitable: you even learn to accept their little eccentricities: the leaking water pump the failing plugs the rusted throttle arm the reluctant carburetor the oily engine the dead clock the frozen speedometer and other sundry defects. you also learn all the tricks to keep the love affair alive: how to slam the glove compartment so that it will stay closed, how to slap the headlight with an open palm in order to have light, how many times to pump the gas pedal and how long to wait before touching the starter, and you overlook each burn hole in the upholstery and each spring poking through the fabric. your car has been in and out of police impounds, has been ticketed for various malfunctions: broken wipers, no turn signals, missing brake light, broken tail lights, bad brakes, excessive exhaust and so forth but in spite of everything you knew you were in good hands, there was never an accident, the old car moved you from one place to another, faithfully -the poor man’s miracle. so when that last breakdown did occur, when the valves quit, when the tired pistons cracked, or the crankshaft failed and you sold it for junk -you then had to watch it carted away hanging there from the back of the tow truck wheeled off as if it had no soul, the bald rear tires the cracked back window and the twisted license plate were the last things you saw, and it hurt as if some woman you loved very much and lived with year after year had died and now you would never again know her music her magic her unbelievable fidelity.
This is a profound psychological violence here. How can one even begin to speak of dignity in labour when one secretly feels one’s job should not exist? How can it not create a sense of deep rage and resentment. Yet it is the peculiar genius of our…
“A trillion dollars in student loan debt right now. A trillion right. A TRILLION dollars. We are lending money that we don’t have to kids that will never be able to pay it back, to educate them for jobs that no longer exist.”—