
Yesterday Andre took a break from doing his "Gillette shit" to talk with Spin magazine and clear the air about the "Pink Matter" remix as well as his involvement in a reworked version of a recent T.I. track that Andre appears on called "Sorry." As he told Spin, his contributions to those tracks were as a solo artist and there was no talk of them being part of some Outkast project:
Kanye obviously isn't even close to being the first hip-hop artist to prepare for fatherhood, but I have to wonder what he'll do to change the rap-dad game. It's been nearly a year since Jay-Z dropped "Glory," a song dedicated to his daughter Blue Ivy Carter (who was born just a couple days prior to the release of "Glory") and also features the newborn, or rather a recording of her crying. Will Ye try and top it? Should we expect an album-length ode to the bundle of joy he's expecting?
2) On a long car ride—if you're not insane, this works best with another player—amuse each other by only speaking in sentences that involve two clauses, independent but related, that could conceivably be fused with a semicolon. Try it; this game is harder than, and as personally embarrassing as, it sounds.
3) Eschew the em dash.
4) Missionary style.
5) Use the semicolon to ingratiate yourself with a future employer by inking it onto your forearm, if you happen to work in the media industry. I did not actually get the semicolon tattoo with a job in mind, though my then future (now former) boss has joked that it was the reason she hired me. I actually didn't get the semicolon with much in mind at all, plus I was sober, so there's really no good story behind it: a friend of mine was learning to draw tattoos and offered to do simple designs for the cost of materials; I liked semicolons, so I thought I'd ask him to put one on my arm.
Sam: I thought [the Atlantic article] was totally underwhelming. I read it once and thought it was sort of blandly inoffensive and then I reread it on the train this morning and started scribbling angry notes in the margins.
Julia: In reaction to what?
Sam: Maybe I need an adult to talk me down. But it was so singularly focused on not just, like, run-of-the-mill upper-class women, but actually basically two types of people—diplomats and CEOs, or "C-level jobs," as the author put it—that the advice it offered would seem to be extremely limited.
Like at a certain point she's talking about her work in the State Department, where she's obviously got an insane schedule, and she says something about "the minute I found myself in a job that is typical of the vast majority of working women" to illustrate a point about "working long hours on someone else's schedule," but it's like, man, the vast majority of working women don't report to Hillary Clinton.
Fair enough.
While I think we might be better advised to turn our collective cold shoulder on Stephanie Rosenbloom's travelogue of Sex and the Second City, so as to starve it of clicks and discourage her editors from assigning any future travel travesties, I think there's a way to uncover what's missing from the piece, and without sending any more traffic its way. I cut up "Single in Chicago," removing 90 percent of the words while distilling the story's meaning. (If only every article on Brooklyn in the Styles section could get the Humument treatment as well.) Read the poem after the jump.
I'm nowhere close to being a Morrissey devotee—that ship set sail after one too many 80s nights in my early 20s. I'm also much more of a dog person than a cat person, so the cat-meme Internet thing feels a bit tired to me, to put it lightly. But in honor of the recently announced Morrissey concert at the Chicago Theatre (on sale this Saturday at 10 AM) and the Reader's imminent Best of Chicago issue—check our Twitter feed beginning at 6:30 AM tomorrow for winner announcements—here's a photo of Morrissey with a cat on his head: