115 Books on Lena Dunham & Miranda July’s Bookshelves at Home (Plus a Bonus Short Play)

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Miran­da-july-read­ing” by Alex­is Bar­rera / Licensed under CC BY 2.5 via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons.

Ah, the joys of din­ing at a new friend’s home, know­ing soon­er or lat­er, one’s host­ess’ blad­der or some bit of last minute meal prepa­ra­tion will dic­tate that one will be left alone to rifle the titles on her book­shelf with aban­don. No med­i­cine cab­i­net can com­pete with this peek into the psy­che.

Pity that some of the peo­ple whose book­shelves I’d be most curi­ous to see are the least like­ly to open their homes to me. That’s why I’d like to thank The Strand book­store for pro­vid­ing a vir­tu­al peek at the shelves of film­mak­ers-cum-authors Miran­da July and Lena Dun­ham.  (Pre­vi­ous par­tic­i­pants in the Authors Book­shelf series include just-plain-reg­u­lar authors George Saun­ders, Edwidge Dan­ti­cat and the late David Fos­ter Wal­lace whose con­tri­bu­tions were select­ed by biog­ra­ph­er D.T. Max.)

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Lena Dun­ham” by David Shankbone — Licensed under CC BY 3.0 via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons.

I wish Dun­ham and July had offered up some per­son­al com­men­tary to explain their hand-picked titles. (Sure­ly their homes are lined with books. Sure­ly each list is but a rep­re­sen­ta­tive sam­pling, one shelf from hun­dreds. Hmm. Inter­est­ing. Did they run back and forth between var­i­ous rooms, curat­ing with a vengeance, or is this a case of what­ev­er hap­pened to be in the case clos­est at hand when dead­line loomed?)

Which book’s a long­time favorite?

Which the lit­er­ary equiv­a­lent of com­fort food?

Are there things that only made the cut because the author is a friend?

Both women are cel­e­brat­ed sto­ry­tellers. Sure­ly, there are sto­ries here beyond the ones con­tained between two cov­ers.

But no mat­ter. The lack of accom­pa­ny­ing anec­dotes means we now have the fun of invent­ing imag­i­nary din­ner par­ties:

 

ME: (stand­ing in the liv­ing room, call­ing through the kitchen door, a glass of wine in hand) Whoa, Lena, I can’t believe you’ve got Impor­tant Arti­facts and Per­son­al Prop­er­ty from the Col­lec­tion of Lenore Doolan and Harold Mor­ris, Includ­ing Books, Street Fash­ion, and Jew­el­ry!

LENA DUNHAM: (polite, but dis­tract­ed by a pot of red sauce) I know, isn’t that one great?

ME: So great! Where’d you buy it?

LENA DUNHAM: Uh, The Strand, I think.

ME: Me too! Such a great con­ceit, that book. Wish I’d come up with it!

LENA DUNHAM: I know what you mean.

ME: Ooh, you’ve got Was She Pret­ty? 

LENA DUNHAM: Hmm? Oh, yeah, my friend Miran­da gave me that.

ME: (glanc­ing between the two books.) Wait! Leanne Sharp­ton. Leanne Sharp­ton. I didn’t real­ize it’s the same author.

LENA DUNHAM: As what?

ME: The per­son who wrote Was She Pret­ty? also wrote Impor­tant Arti­facts and Per­son­al Prop­er­ty-

ME & LENA DUNHAM IN UNISON: — from the Col­lec­tion of Lenore Doolan and Harold Mor­ris, Includ­ing Books, Street Fash­ion, and Jew­el­ry!

LENA DUNHAM: Got­ta love that title.

ME: Why do you have all these kids’ books?

LENA DUNHAM: Those are from my child­hood.

ME: (slid­ing an unnamed title off the shelf, eyes widen­ing as I read the shock­ing­ly graph­ic per­son­al inscrip­tion on the fly­leaf) Oh?

LENA DUNHAM: I real­ly relate to Eloise.

ME: (hasti­ly slid­ing the vol­ume back onto the shelf before Lena can catch me snoop­ing) Oh yeah…ha ha.

LENA DUNHAM: Are you the one who likes graph­ic nov­els?

ME: Me? Yes!!!

LENA DUNHAM: Yeah. My friend Miran­da does too.

ME:  That’s fun­ny - Sex and the Sin­gle Girl right next to Of Human Bondage.

LENA DUNHAM: (curs­ing under her breath)

ME: Need help?

LENA DUNHAM: No, it’s just this damn …arrrggh. I hate this cook­book!

ME: (bright­ly) Smells good!

LENA DUNHAM: … crap.

ME: So, is Adam Dri­ver com­ing? Or Ray or any­body?

LENA DUNHAM: (testi­ly)  You mean Alex Kar­povsky?

ME: (flus­tered) Oh, ha ha, yes! Alex! … I sent him a Face­book request and he accept­ed.

LENA DUNHAM: (mut­ters under her breath)

ME: Design Sponge? Real­ly? What’s some­one in your shoes doing with a bunch of DIY dec­o­rat­ing books?

LENA DUNHAM: (cold­ly) Research.

 

Actu­al­ly, maybe it is bet­ter to admire one’s idols’ book­shelves from afar.

I’m cha­grined that I don’t rec­og­nize more of their mod­ern fic­tion picks. That wasn’t such a prob­lem when I was mea­sur­ing myself against the 430 books on Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s read­ing list.

Thank heav­en for old stand­bys like Madame Bovary.

In all sin­cer­i­ty, I was glad that Dun­ham didn’t try to mask her love of home decor blog books.

And that July includ­ed her husband’s mono­graph, Our Bod­ies, Our­selves and a hand­book to rais­ing self-con­fi­dent babies.

One’s shelves, after all, are a mat­ter of taste. So, cel­e­brate the sim­i­lar­i­ties, take their rec­om­men­da­tions under advise­ment, see below and read what you like!

 

MIRANDA JULY’S SHELF

A Time for Every­thing  — Karl Ove Knaus­gaard

A Very Young Dancer — Jill Kre­mentz

Alice James: A Biog­ra­phy  — Jean Strouse

Ani­ma­cies: Biopol­i­tics, Racial Mat­ter­ing, and Queer Affect  — Mel Y. Chen

Arthur Tress: The Dream Col­lec­tor — John Mina­han

Build­ing Sto­ries  — Chris Ware

Crud­dy: An Illus­trat­ed Nov­el  — Lyn­da Bar­ry

Diaries, 1910–1923  — Franz Kaf­ka

Do the Win­dows Open?  — Julie Hecht

Dorothy Ian­none: Seek The Extremes! (v.1) — Bar­bara Vinken, Sabine Folie

Edge­wise: A Pic­ture of Cook­ie Mueller  — Chloe Grif­fin

Embryo­ge­n­e­sis — Richard Grossinger

Friedl Kubel­ka Vom Groller  — Melanie Ohne­mus

Amer­i­can War  — Har­rell Fletch­er

Han­nah Höch: Album (Eng­lish and Ger­man Edi­tion) — Han­nah Höch

How to Build a Girl  — Caitlin Moran

Humil­i­a­tion  — Wayne Koesten­baum

It’s OK Not to Share and Oth­er Rene­gade Rules for Rais­ing Com­pe­tent and Com­pas­sion­ate Kids  — Heather Shu­mak­er

King Kong The­o­ry  — Vir­ginie Despentes

Leav­ing the Atocha Sta­tion  — Ben Lern­er

Light­ning Rods  — Helen DeWitt

Lost at Sea: The Jon Ron­son Mys­ter­ies  — Jon Ron­son

Maid­en­head  — Tama­ra Faith Berg­er

Man V. Nature: Sto­ries  — Diane Cook

Mike Mills: Graph­ics Films  — Mike Mills

Napa Val­ley His­tor­i­cal Ecol­o­gy Atlas: Explor­ing a Hid­den Land­scape of Trans­for­ma­tion and Resilience  — Robin Grossinger

Need More Love  — Aline Komin­sky Crumb

Our Bod­ies, Our­selves (Com­plete­ly Revised and Updat­ed Ver­sion)  — Boston Wom­en’s Health Book Col­lec­tive

Jim Gold­berg: Rich and Poor  — Jim Gold­berg

San­ja Ivekovic: Sweet Vio­lence  — Rox­ana Mar­co­ci

Sophie Calle: The Address Book  — Sophie Calle

Star­ing Back  — Chris Mark­er

Taryn Simon: A Liv­ing Man Declared Dead and Oth­er Chap­ters, I‑XVIII — Homi Bhab­ha, Geof­frey Batchen

Tete-a-Tete: The Tumul­tuous Lives & Loves of Simone De Beau­voir and Jean-Paul Sartre  — Hazel Row­ley

The Hour of the Star  — Clarice Lispec­tor

The Illus­trat­ed I Ching — R.L. Wing

Two Kinds of Decay: A Mem­oir  — Sarah Man­gu­so

Traf­fic  — Ken­neth Gold­smith

Two Seri­ous Ladies  — Jane Bowles

Was She Pret­ty?  — Leanne Shap­ton

What is the What: The Auto­bi­og­ra­phy of Valenti­no Achak Deng: A Nov­el  — Dave Eggers

Why Did I Ever  — Mary Robi­son

Women in Clothes  — Sheila Heti

Work­ing: Peo­ple Talk About What They Do All Day and How They Feel About What They Do  — Studs Terkel

Your Self-Con­fi­dent Baby: How to Encour­age Your Child’s Nat­ur­al Abil­i­ties — From the Very Start  — Mag­da Ger­ber

Far from the Tree  — Andrew Solomon

How Should a Per­son Be?  — Sheila Heti

 

LENA DUNHAM’S LIST

The Girls’ Guide to Hunt­ing and Fish­ing  — Melis­sa Bank

A Lit­tle His­to­ry of the World  — E. H. Gom­brich

Anne of Green Gables  — L.M. Mont­gomery

Apart­ment Ther­a­py Presents: Real Homes, Real Peo­ple, Hun­dreds of Real Design Solu­tions  — Maxwell Gilling­ham-Ryan

Ariel: The Restored Edi­tion  — Sylvia Plath

Bad Fem­i­nist: Essays  — Rox­ane Gay

Bas­tard Out of Car­oli­na (20th Anniver­sary Edi­tion)  — Dorothy Alli­son

Blue is the Warmest Col­or  — Julie Maroh

Brighton Rock  — Gra­ham Greene

Caved­weller  - Dorothy Alli­son

Coun­try Girl: A Mem­oir  — Edna O’Brien

Crazy Sal­ad and Scrib­ble Scrib­ble: Some Things About Women and Notes on Media  — Nora Ephron

Design Sponge at Home  — Grace Bon­ney

Din­ner: A Love Sto­ry: It All Begins at the Fam­i­ly Table  — Jen­ny Rosen­stra­ch

Eleanor & Park  — Rain­bow Row­ell

Eloise  — Kay Thomp­son

Eloise In Moscow  — Kay Thomp­son

Eloise In Paris  — Kay Thomp­son

Fan­ny At Chez Panisse  — Alice Waters

Good­bye, Colum­bus and Five Short Sto­ries  — Philip Roth

Hol­i­days on Ice  — David Sedaris

Impor­tant Arti­facts and Per­son­al Prop­er­ty from the Col­lec­tion of Lenore Doolan and Harold Mor­ris, Includ­ing Books, Street Fash­ion, and Jew­el­ry  — Leanne Shap­ton

Lentil  — Robert McCloskey

Love Poems  — Nik­ki Gio­van­ni

Love, an Index (McSweeney’s Poet­ry Series)  — Rebec­ca Lin­den­berg

Love, Nina: A Nan­ny Writes Home  - Nina Stibbe

Madame Bovary: Provin­cial Ways  — Gus­tave Flaubert

NW: A Nov­el  — Zadie Smith

Of Human Bondage  — W. Som­er­set Maugh­am

Ran­dom Fam­i­ly: Love, Drugs, Trou­ble, and Com­ing of Age in the Bronx  — Adri­an Nicole LeBlanc

Rebec­ca  — Daphne Du Mau­ri­er

Remod­elista  — Julie Carl­son

Select­ed Sto­ries, 1968–1994  - Alice Munro

Sex and the Sin­gle Girl  — Helen Gur­ley Brown

She’s Come Undone  — Wal­ly Lamb

Some­where Towards the End: A Mem­oir  — Diana Athill

Stet: An Edi­tor’s Life  - Diana Athill

Sula  — Toni Mor­ri­son

Sum­mer Blonde  — Adri­an Tomine

Super Nat­ur­al Every Day: Well-Loved Recipes from My Nat­ur­al Foods Kitchen  — Hei­di Swan­son

Tenth of Decem­ber  - George Saun­ders

Tess of the D’Urbervilles  — Thomas Hardy

The Boys of My Youth  - Jo Ann Beard

The Col­lect­ed Sto­ries of Lydia Davis  — Lydia Davis

The Dud Avo­ca­do  — Elaine Dundy

The Impor­tant Book  — Mar­garet Wise Brown

The Jour­nal­ist and the Mur­der­er  — Janet Mal­colm

The Liars’ Club: A Mem­oir  — Mary Karr

The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.: A Nov­el  — Adelle Wald­man

The Mar­riage Plot  — Jef­frey Eugenides

The Phi­los­o­phy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again)  - Andy Warhol

The Sto­ry of Fer­di­nand  — Munro Leaf

The Woman in White  - Wilkie Collins

The Writ­ing Class  — Jin­cy Wil­lett

This Is My Life  - Meg Wolitzer

Tiny Beau­ti­ful Things: Advice on Love and Life from ‘Dear Sug­ar’  - Cheryl Strayed

Wall­flower At the Orgy  — Nora Ephron

Was She Pret­ty?  — Leanne Shap­ton

We Have Always Lived In the Cas­tle  — Shirley Jack­son

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed: The Loves and Love Poems of Edna St. Vin­cent Mil­lay  — Daniel Mark Epstein

What She Saw…  — Lucin­da Rosen­feld

What the Liv­ing Do: Poems  — Marie Howe

While I Was Gone  - Sue Miller

With or With­out You: A Mem­oir  — Domeni­ca Rut

Women in Clothes  — Sheila Heti

via Scrib­n­er Books

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Miran­da July’s Quirky Film Presents Some­body, the New App That Con­nects Strangers in the Real World

David Fos­ter Wallace’s Love of Lan­guage Revealed by the Books in His Per­son­al Library

The 430 Books in Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s Library: How Many Have You Read?

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

A Dazzling Gallery of Clockwork Orange Tattoos

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Alex, the pro­tag­o­nist of Antho­ny Burgess’ A Clock­work Orange takes teenage rebel­lion to psy­chot­ic extremes, but one act he and his droogs nev­er indulge in is get­ting tat­tooed. It doesn’t even seem to be on their radar. How dif­fer­ent things were in 1962, when the book was pub­lished!

I have no doubt that direc­tor Stan­ley Kubrick (or design­er Mile­na Canonero) could have devised some icon­ic ink for the 1971 film adap­ta­tion, but it would’ve been gild­ing the lily. Movie Alex Mal­colm McDow­ell’s sin­gle false eye­lash is so arrest­ing as to be instant­ly rec­og­niz­able. It deserved its star billing on the updat­ed book cov­er that coin­cid­ed with the film’s release.

It’s also just one of many Clock­work Orange-inspired images that dec­o­rates fans’ hides now that tat­too­ing has hit the main­stream. What would Alex think?

The lit­tle mon­ster’s ego would’ve have rel­ished the noto­ri­ety, but I bet he’d have had a snick­er, too, at the lengths to which eager chellovecks and devotchkas will go. It’s the kind of thing his dim droo­gie Dim would do—mark him­self up per­ma­nent when he could’ve just as well have bought a tote­bag.

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Whether or not you per­son­al­ly would con­sid­er mak­ing a salute to A Clock­work Orange a life­long fea­ture of your birth­day suit, it’s hard not to admire the com­mit­ment of the pas­sion­ate lit­er­a­ture and film lovers who do.

In assem­bling the gallery below, we’ve opt­ed to for­go the pho­to­re­al­is­tic por­traits of McDowell—particularly the ones that recre­ate the aver­sion ther­a­py scene—in favor of the graph­ic, the cre­ative, the jaw drop­ping, the sly… and the unavoid­able Hel­lo Kit­ty mash up, which we’re kind of hop­ing wash­es off.

Clockwork Tattoo 4

Clockwork Tattoo 6

Clockwork Tattoo 5

Clockwork Tattoo 7

Clockwork Tattoo 8

Clockwork Tattoo 9

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Clockwork Tattoo 11

SONY DSC

Clockwork Tattoo 13

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Mak­ing of Stan­ley Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange

Watch The Simp­sons’ Hal­loween Par­o­dy of Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange and The Shin­ing

15 Great Films Adapt­ed From Equal­ly Great Nov­els

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, home­school­er, and car­toon­ist, whose lat­est com­ic cel­e­brates Civ­il War fire­brand, “Crazy Bet” Van Lew. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Jean Cocteau Delivers a Speech to the Year 2000 in 1962: “I Hope You Have Not Become Robots”

Jean Cocteau was a great many things to a great many people—writer, film­mak­er, painter, friend, and lover. In the lat­ter two cat­e­gories he could count among his acquain­tances such mod­ernist giants as Pablo Picas­so, Ken­neth Anger, Erik Satie, Mar­lene Diet­rich, Edith Piaf, Jean Marais, Mar­cel Proust, André Gide, and a num­ber of oth­er famous names. But Cocteau him­self had lit­tle use for fame and its blan­d­ish­ments. As you’ll see in the short film above, “Cocteau Address­es the Year 2000,” the great 20th cen­tu­ry artist con­sid­ered the many awards bestowed upon him naught but “tran­scen­dent pun­ish­ment.” What Cocteau cared for most was poet­ry; for him it was the “basis of all art, a ‘reli­gion with­out hope.’ ”

Cocteau began his career as a poet, pub­lish­ing his first col­lec­tion, Aladdin’s Lamp, at the age of 19. By 1963, at the age of 73, he had lived one of the rich­est artis­tic lives imag­in­able, trans­form­ing every genre he touched.

Decid­ing to leave one last arti­fact to pos­ter­i­ty, Cocteau sat down and record­ed the film above, a mes­sage to the year 2000, intend­ing it as a time cap­sule only to be opened in that year (though it was dis­cov­ered, and viewed a few years ear­li­er). Biog­ra­ph­er James S. Williams describes the doc­u­men­tary tes­ta­ment as “Cocteau’s final gift to his fel­low human beings.”

He reit­er­ates some of his long-stand­ing artis­tic themes and prin­ci­ples: death is a form of life; poet­ry is beyond time and a kind of supe­ri­or math­e­mat­ics; we are all a pro­ces­sion of oth­ers who inhab­it us; errors are the true expres­sion of an indi­vid­ual, and so on. The tone is at once spec­u­la­tive and uncom­pro­mis­ing…

Por­tray­ing him­self as “a liv­ing anachro­nism” in a “phan­tom-like state,” Cocteau, seat­ed before his own art­work, quotes St. Augus­tine, makes para­bles of events in his life, and address­es, pri­mar­i­ly, the youth of the future. The uses and mis­us­es of tech­nol­o­gy com­prise a cen­tral theme of his dis­course: “I cer­tain­ly hope that you have not become robots,” Cocteau says, “but on the con­trary that you have become very human­ized: that’s my hope.” The peo­ple of his time, he claims, “remain appren­tice robots.”

Among Cocteau’s con­cerns is the dom­i­nance of an “archi­tec­tur­al Esperan­to, which remains our time’s great mis­take.” By this phrase he means that “the same house is being built every­where and no atten­tion is paid to cli­mate, atmos­pher­i­cal con­di­tions or land­scape.” Whether we take this as a lit­er­al state­ment or a metaphor for social engi­neer­ing, or both, Cocteau sees the con­di­tion as one in which these monot­o­nous repeat­ing hous­es are “pris­ons which lock you up or bar­racks which fence you in.” The mod­ern con­di­tion, as he frames it, is one “strad­dling con­tra­dic­tions” between human­i­ty and machin­ery. Nonethe­less, he is impressed with sci­en­tif­ic advance­ment, a realm of “men who do extra­or­di­nary things.”

And yet, “the real man of genius,” for Cocteau, is the poet, and he hopes for us that the genius of poet­ry “hasn’t become some­thing like a shame­ful and con­ta­gious sick­ness against which you wish to be immu­nized.” He has very much more of inter­est to com­mu­ni­cate, about his own time, and his hopes for ours. Cocteau record­ed this trans­mis­sion from the past in August of 1963. On Octo­ber 11 of that same year, he died of a heart attack, sup­pos­ed­ly shocked to death by news of his friend Edith Piaf’s death that same day in the same man­ner.

His final film, and final com­mu­ni­ca­tion to a pub­lic yet to be born, accords with one of the great themes of his life’s work—“the tug of war between the old and the new and the para­dox­i­cal dis­par­i­ties that sur­face because of that ten­sion.” Should we attend to his mes­sages to our time, we may find that he antic­i­pat­ed many of our 21st cen­tu­ry dilem­mas between tech­nol­o­gy and human­i­ty, and between his­to­ry and myth. It’s inter­est­ing to imag­ine how we might describe our own age to a lat­er gen­er­a­tion, and, like Cocteau, what we might hope for them.

via Net­work Awe­some

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean Cocteau’s Avante-Garde Film From 1930, The Blood of a Poet

The Post­cards That Picas­so Illus­trat­ed and Sent to Jean Cocteau, Apol­li­naire & Gertrude Stein

David Lynch Presents the His­to­ry of Sur­re­al­ist Film (1987)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Cab Calloway’s “Hepster Dictionary,” a 1939 Glossary of the Lingo (the “Jive”) of the Harlem Renaissance

The lists are in. By over­whelm­ing con­sen­sus, the buzz­word of 2014 was “vape.” Appar­ent­ly, that’s the verb that enables you to smoke an e‑cig. Left to its own devices, my com­put­er will still auto­cor­rect 2014’s biggest word to “cape,” but that could change.

Hope­ful­ly not.

Hope­ful­ly, 2015 will yield a buzz­word more piquant than “vape.”

With luck, a razor-wit­ted teen is already on the case, but just in case, let’s hedge our bets. Let’s go spelunk­ing in an era when buzz­words were cool, but adult…insouciant, yet sub­stan­tive.

Lead us, Cab Cal­loway!

The charis­mat­ic band­leader not only had a way with words, his love of them led him to com­pile a “Hep­ster’s Dic­tio­nary” of Harlem musi­cian slang cir­ca 1938. It fea­tured 200 expres­sions used by the “hep cats” when they talk their “jive” in the clubs on Lenox Avenue. It was also appar­ent­ly the first dic­tio­nary authored by an African-Amer­i­can.

If only every ama­teur lex­i­cog­ra­ph­er were foxy enough to set his or her def­i­n­i­tions to music, and creep them out like the shad­ow, as Cal­loway does above. The com­plete list is below.

What a blip!

By my cal­cu­la­tion, we’ve got eleven months to iden­ti­fy a choice can­di­date, res­ur­rect it, and inte­grate it into every­day speech. With luck some fine din­ner whose star is on the rise will beef our word in pub­lic, prefer­ably dur­ing a scan­dalous, much ana­lyzed per­for­mance.

It’s imma­te­r­i­al which one we pick. Gam­min’? Jeff? Hinc­ty? Fruit­ing? What­ev­er you choose, I’m in. Let’s blow their wigs.

Bust your conks in the com­ments sec­tion. I’m ready.

CallowaySignedHepster018

HEPSTER’S DICTIONARY

A hum­mer (n.) — excep­tion­al­ly good. Ex., “Man, that boy is a hum­mer.”

Ain’t com­ing on that tab (v.) — won’t accept the propo­si­tion. Usu­al­ly abbr. to “I ain’t com­ing.”

Alli­ga­tor (n.) — jit­ter­bug.

Apple (n.) — the big town, the main stem, Harlem.

Arm­strongs (n.) — musi­cal notes in the upper reg­is­ter, high trum­pet notes.

Bar­be­cue (n.) — the girl friend, a beau­ty

Bar­rel­house (adj.) — free and easy.

Bat­tle (n.) — a very home­ly girl, a crone.

Beat (adj.) — (1) tired, exhaust­ed. Ex., “You look beat” or “I feel beat.” (2) lack­ing any­thing. Ex, “I am beat for my cash”, “I am beat to my socks” (lack­ing every­thing).

Beat it out (v.) — play it hot, empha­size the rhythym.

Beat up (adj.) — sad, uncom­pli­men­ta­ry, tired.

Beat up the chops (or the gums) (v.) — to talk, con­verse, be loqua­cious.

Beef (v.) — to say, to state. Ex., “He beefed to me that, etc.”

Bible (n.) — the gospel truth. Ex., “It’s the bible!”

Black (n.) — night.

Black and tan (n.) — dark and light col­ored folks. Not col­ored and white folks as erro­neous­ly assumed.

Blew their wigs (adj.) — excit­ed with enthu­si­asm, gone crazy.

Blip (n.) — some­thing very good. Ex., “That’s a blip”; “She’s a blip.”

Blow the top (v.) — to be over­come with emo­tion (delight). Ex., “You’ll blow your top when you hear this one.”

Boo­gie-woo­gie (n.) — har­mo­ny with accent­ed bass.

Boot (v.) — to give. Ex., “Boot me that glove.”

Break it up (v.) — to win applause, to stop the show.

Bree (n.) — girl.

Bright (n.) — day.

Bright­nin’ (n.) — day­break.

Bring down ((1) n. (2) v.) — (1) some­thing depress­ing. Ex., “That’s a bring down.” (2) Ex., “That brings me down.”

Bud­dy ghee (n.) — fel­low.

Bust your conk (v.) — apply your­self dili­gent­ly, break your neck.

Canary (n.) — girl vocal­ist.

Capped (v.) — out­done, sur­passed.

Cat (n.) — musi­cian in swing band.

Chick (n.) — girl.

Chime (n.) — hour. Ex., “I got in at six chimes.”

Clam­bake (n.) — ad lib ses­sion, every man for him­self, a jam ses­sion not in the groove.

Chirp (n.) — female singer.

Cogs (n.) — sun glass­es.

Col­lar (v.) — to get, to obtain, to com­pre­hend. Ex., “I got­ta col­lar me some food”; “Do you col­lar this jive?”

Come again (v.) — try it over, do bet­ter than you are doing, I don’t under­stand you.

Comes on like gang­busters (or like test pilot) (v.) — plays, sings, or dances in a ter­rif­ic man­ner, par excel­lence in any depart­ment. Some­times abbr. to “That singer real­ly comes on!”

Cop (v.) — to get, to obtain (see col­lar; knock).

Corny (adj.) — old-fash­ioned, stale.

Creeps out like the shad­ow (v.) — “comes on,” but in smooth, suave, sophis­ti­cat­ed man­ner.

Crumb crush­ers (n.) — teeth.

Cub­by (n.) — room, flat, home.

Cups (n.) — sleep. Ex., “I got­ta catch some cups.”

Cut out (v.) — to leave, to depart. Ex., “It’s time to cut out”; “I cut out from the joint in ear­ly bright.”

Cut rate (n.) — a low, cheap per­son. Ex., “Don’t play me cut rate, Jack!”

Dic­ty (adj.) — high-class, nifty, smart.

Dig (v.) — (1) meet. Ex., “I’ll plant you now and dig you lat­er.” (2) look, see. Ex., “Dig the chick on your left duke.” (3) com­pre­hend, under­stand. Ex., “Do you dig this jive?”

Dim (n.) — evening.

Dime note (n.) — ten-dol­lar bill.

Dog­house (n.) — bass fid­dle.

Domi (n.) — ordi­nary place to live in. Ex., “I live in a right­eous dome.”

Doss (n.) — sleep. Ex., “I’m a lit­tle beat for my doss.”

Down with it (adj.) — through with it.

Drape (n.) — suit of clothes, dress, cos­tume.

Dream­ers (n.) — bed cov­ers, blan­kets.

Dry-goods (n.) — same as drape.

Duke (n.) — hand, mitt.

Dutchess (n.) — girl.

Ear­ly black (n.) — evening

Ear­ly bright (n.) — morn­ing.

Evil (adj.) — in ill humor, in a nasty tem­per.

Fall out (v.) — to be over­come with emo­tion. Ex., “The cats fell out when he took that solo.”

Fews and two (n.) — mon­ey or cash in small quati­ty.

Final (v.) — to leave, to go home. Ex., “I finaled to my pad” (went to bed); “We copped a final” (went home).

Fine din­ner (n.) — a good-look­ing girl.

Focus (v.) — to look, to see.

Foxy (v.) — shrewd.

Frame (n.) — the body.

Fraughty issue (n.) — a very sad mes­sage, a deplorable state of affairs.

Free­by (n.) — no charge, gratis. Ex., “The meal was a free­by.”

Frisk­ing the whiskers (v.) — what the cats do when they are warm­ing up for a swing ses­sion.

Frol­ic pad (n.) — place of enter­tain­ment, the­ater, night­club.

From­by (adj.) — a frompy queen is a bat­tle or faust.

Front (n.) — a suit of clothes.

Fruit­ing (v.) — fick­le, fool­ing around with no par­tic­u­lar object.

Fry (v.) — to go to get hair straight­ened.

Gabriels (n.) — trum­pet play­ers.

Gam­min’ (adj.) — show­ing off, flir­ta­tious.

Gasser (n, adj.) — sen­sa­tion­al. Ex., “When it comes to danc­ing, she’s a gasser.”

Gate (n.) — a male per­son (a salu­ta­tion), abbr. for “gate-mouth.”

Get in there (excla­ma­tion.) — go to work, get busy, make it hot, give all you’ve got.

Gimme some skin (v.) — shake hands.

Glims (n.) — the eyes.

Got your boots on — you know what it is all about, you are a hep cat, you are wise.

Got your glass­es on — you are ritzy or snooty, you fail to rec­og­nize your friends, you are up-stage.

Gravy (n.) — prof­its.

Grease (v.) — to eat.

Groovy (adj.) — fine. Ex., “I feel groovy.”

Ground grip­pers (n.) — new shoes.

Growl (n.) — vibrant notes from a trum­pet.

Gut-buck­et (adj.) — low-down music.

Guz­zlin’ foam (v.) — drink­ing beer.

Hard (adj.) — fine, good. Ex., “That’s a hard tie you’re wear­ing.”

Hard spiel (n.) — inter­est­ing line of talk.

Have a ball (v.) — to enjoy your­self, stage a cel­e­bra­tion. Ex., “I had myself a ball last night.”

Hep cat (n.) — a guy who knows all the answers, under­stands jive.

Hide-beat­er (n.) — a drum­mer (see skin-beat­er).

Hinc­ty (adj.) — con­ceit­ed, snooty.

Hip (adj.) — wise, sophis­ti­cat­ed, any­one with boots on. Ex., “She’s a hip chick.”

Home-cook­ing (n.) — some­thing very din­ner (see fine din­ner).

Hot (adj.) — musi­cal­ly tor­rid; before swing, tunes were hot or bands were hot.

Hype (n, v.) — build up for a loan, woo­ing a girl, per­sua­sive talk.

Icky (n.) — one who is not hip, a stu­pid per­son, can’t col­lar the jive.

Igg (v.) — to ignore some­one. Ex., “Don’t igg me!)

In the groove (adj.) — per­fect, no devi­a­tion, down the alley.

Jack (n.) — name for all male friends (see gate; pops).

Jam ((1)n, (2)v.) — (1) impro­vised swing music. Ex., “That’s swell jam.” (2) to play such music. Ex., “That cat sure­ly can jam.”

Jeff (n.) — a pest, a bore, an icky.

Jel­ly (n.) — any­thing free, on the house.

Jit­ter­bug (n.) — a swing fan.

Jive (n.) — Harlemese speech.

Joint is jump­ing — the place is live­ly, the club is leap­ing with fun.

Jumped in port (v.) — arrived in town.

Kick (n.) — a pock­et. Ex., “I’ve got five bucks in my kick.”

Kill me (v.) — show me a good time, send me.

Killer-diller (n.) — a great thrill.

Knock (v.) — give. Ex., “Knock me a kiss.”

Kopaset­ic (adj.) — absolute­ly okay, the tops.

Lamp (v.) — to see, to look at.

Land o’darkness (n.) — Harlem.

Lane (n.) — a male, usu­al­ly a non­pro­fes­sion­al.

Latch on (v.) — grab, take hold, get wise to.

Lay some iron (v.) — to tap dance. Ex., “Jack, you real­ly laid some iron that last show!”

Lay your rack­et (v.) — to jive, to sell an idea, to pro­mote a propo­si­tion.

Lead sheet (n.) — a top­coat.

Left raise (n.) — left side. Ex., “Dig the chick on your left raise.”

Lick­ing the chops (v.) — see frisk­ing the whiskers.

Licks (n.) — hot musi­cal phras­es.

Lily whites (n.) — bed sheets.

Line (n.) — cost, price, mon­ey. Ex., “What is the line on this drape” (how much does this suit cost)? “Have you got the line in the mouse” (do you have the cash in your pock­et)? Also, in reply­ing, all fig­ures are dou­bled. Ex., “This drape is line forty” (this suit costs twen­ty dol­lars).

Lock up — to acquire some­thing exclu­sive­ly. Ex., “He’s got that chick locked up”; “I’m gonna lock up that deal.”

Main kick (n.) — the stage.

Main on the hitch (n.) — hus­band.

Main queen (n.) — favorite girl friend, sweet­heart.

Man in gray (n.) — the post­man.

Mash me a fin (com­mand.) — Give me $5.

Mel­low (adj.) — all right, fine. Ex., “That’s mel­low, Jack.”

Melt­ed out (adj.) — broke.

Mess (n.) — some­thing good. Ex., “That last drink was a mess.”

Meter (n.) — quar­ter, twen­ty-five cents.

Mezz (n.) — any­thing supreme, gen­uine. Ex., “this is real­ly the mezz.”

Mitt pound­ing (n.) — applause.

Moo juice (n.) — milk.

Mouse (n.) — pock­et. Ex., “I’ve got a meter in the mouse.”

Mug­gin’ (v.) — mak­ing ‘em laugh, putting on the jive. “Mug­gin’ light­ly,” light stac­ca­to swing; “mug­gin’ heavy,” heavy stac­ca­to swing.

Mur­der (n.) — some­thing excel­lent or ter­rif­ic. Ex., “That’s sol­id mur­der, gate!”

Neigho, pops — Noth­ing doing, pal.

Nick­lette (n.) — auto­mat­ic phono­graph, music box.

Nick­el note (n.) — five-dol­lar bill.

Nix out (v.) — to elim­i­nate, get rid of. Ex., “I nixed that chick out last week”; “I nixed my gar­ments” (undressed).

Nod (n.) — sleep. Ex., “I think I’l cop a nod.”

Ofay (n.) — white per­son.

Off the cob (adj.) — corny, out of date.

Off-time jive (n.) — a sor­ry excuse, say­ing the wrong thing.

Orches­tra­tion (n.) — an over­coat.

Out of the world (adj.) — per­fect ren­di­tion. Ex., “That sax cho­rus was out of the world.”

Ow! — an excla­ma­tion with var­ied mean­ing. When a beau­ti­ful chick pass­es by, it’s “Ow!”; and when some­one pulls an awful pun, it’s also “Ow!”

Pad (n.) — bed.

Peck­ing (n.) — a dance intro­duced at the Cot­ton Club in 1937.

Peo­la (n.) — a light per­son, almost white.

Pigeon (n.) — a young girl.

Pops (n.) — salu­ta­tion for all males (see gate; Jack).

Pounders (n.) — police­men.

Queen (n.) — a beau­ti­ful girl.

Rank (v.) — to low­er.

Ready (adj.) — 100 per cent in every way. Ex., “That fried chick­en was ready.”

Ride (v.) — to swing, to keep per­fect tem­po in play­ing or singing.

Riff (n.) — hot lick, musi­cal phrase.

Right­eous (adj.) — splen­did, okay. Ex., “That was a right­eous queen I dug you with last black.”

Rock me (v.) — send me, kill me, move me with rhythym.

Ruff (n.) — quar­ter, twen­ty-five cents.

Rug cut­ter (n.) — a very good dancer, an active jit­ter­bug.

Sad (adj.) — very bad. Ex., “That was the sad­dest meal I ever col­lared.”

Sad­der than a map (adj.) — ter­ri­ble. Ex., “That man is sad­der than a map.”

Salty (adj.) — angry, ill-tem­pered.

Sam got you — you’ve been draft­ed into the army.

Send (v.) — to arouse the emo­tions. (joy­ful). Ex., “That sends me!”

Set of sev­en brights (n.) — one week.

Sharp (adj.) — neat, smart, tricky. Ex., “That hat is sharp as a tack.”

Sig­ni­fy (v.) — to declare your­self, to brag, to boast.

Skins (n.) — drums.

Skin-beat­er (n.) — drum­mer (see hide-beat­er).

Sky piece (n.) — hat.

Slave (v.) — to work, whether ardu­ous labor or not.

Slide your jib (v.) — to talk freely.

Snatch­er (n.) — detec­tive.

So help me — it’s the truth, that’s a fact.

Sol­id (adj.) — great, swell, okay.

Sound­ed off (v.) — began a pro­gram or con­ver­sa­tion.

Spoutin’ (v.) — talk­ing too much.

Square (n.) — an unhep per­son (see icky; Jeff).

Stache (v.) — to file, to hide away, to secrete.

Stand one up (v.) — to play one cheap, to assume one is a cut-rate.

To be stashed (v.) — to stand or remain.

Susie‑Q (n.) — a dance intro­duced at the Cot­ton Club in 1936.

Take it slow (v.) — be care­ful.

Take off (v.) — play a solo.

The man (n.) — the law.

Threads (n.) — suit, dress or costuem (see drape; dry-goods).

Tick (n.) — minute, moment. Ex., “I’ll dig you in a few ticks.” Also, ticks are dou­bled in account­ing time, just as mon­ey isdou­bled in giv­ing “line.” Ex., “I finaled to the pad this ear­ly bright at tick twen­ty” (I got to bed this morn­ing at ten o’clock).

Tim­ber (n.) — tooth­ipick.

To drib­ble (v.) — to stut­ter. Ex., “He talked in drib­bles.”

Togged to the bricks — dressed to kill, from head to toe.

Too much (adj.) — term of high­est praise. Ex., “You are too much!”

Trick­er­a­tion (n.) — strut­tin’ your stuff, mug­gin’ light­ly and polite­ly.

Tril­ly (v.) — to leave, to depart. Ex., “Well, I guess I’ll tril­ly.”

Truck (v.) — to go some­where. Ex., “I think I’ll truck on down to the gin­mill (bar).”

Truck­ing (n.) — a dance intro­duced at the Cot­ton Club in 1933.

Twister to the slam­mer (n.) — the key to the door.

Two cents (n.) — two dol­lars.

Unhep (adj.) — not wise to the jive, said of an icky, a Jeff, a square.

Vine (n.) — a suit of clothes.

V‑8 (n.) — a chick who spurns com­pa­ny, is inde­pen­dent, is not amenable.

What’s your sto­ry? — What do you want? What have you got to say for your­self? How are tricks? What excuse can you offer? Ex., “I don’t know what his sto­ry is.”

Whipped up (adj.) — worn out, exhaust­ed, beat for your every­thing.

Wren (n.) — a chick, a queen.

Wrong riff — the wrong thing said or done. Ex., “You’re com­ing up on the wrong riff.”

Yard­dog (n.) — uncouth, bad­ly attired, unat­trac­tive male or female.

Yeah, man — an excla­ma­tion of assent.

Zoot (adj.) — exag­ger­at­ed

Zoot suit (n.) — the ulti­mate in clothes. The only total­ly and tru­ly Amer­i­can civil­ian suit.

BONUS MUSICAL INSTRUMENT SUPPLEMENT

Gui­tar: Git Box or Bel­ly-Fid­dle

Bass: Dog­house

Drums: Suit­case, Hides, or Skins

Piano: Store­house or Ivories

Sax­o­phone: Plumb­ing or Reeds

Trom­bone: Tram or Slush-Pump

Clar­inet: Licorice Stick or Gob Stick

Xylo­phone: Wood­pile

Vibra­phone: Iron­works

Vio­lin: Squeak-Box

Accor­dion: Squeeze-Box or Groan-Box

Tuba: Foghorn

Elec­tric Organ: Spark Jiv­er

via The Art of Man­li­ness

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Ori­gins of Michael Jackson’s Moon­walk: Vin­tage Footage of Cab Cal­loway, Sam­my Davis Jr., Fred Astaire & More

A 1932 Illus­trat­ed Map of Harlem’s Night Clubs: From the Cot­ton Club to the Savoy Ball­room

Duke Ellington’s Sym­pho­ny in Black, Star­ring a 19-Year-old Bil­lie Hol­i­day

Cab Calloway’s “Hep­ster Dic­tio­nary,” a 1939 Glos­sary of the Lin­go (the “Jive”) of the Harlem Renais­sance

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, home­school­er, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Neil deGrasse Tyson Ponders the Big Question “Does the Universe Have a Purpose” in a Simple Animation

The Tem­ple­ton Foun­da­tion asked some heavy-hit­ter thinkers to answer the ques­tion, “Does the Uni­verse Have a Pur­pose”. Some said “Yes” and “Cer­tain­ly.” Oth­ers con­clud­ed “Unlike­ly” and “No.” Neil deGrasse Tyson — astro­physi­cist, direc­tor of the Hay­den Plan­e­tar­i­um, and pop­u­lar­iz­er of sci­ence — gave an answer that falls tech­ni­cal­ly in the “Not Cer­tain” camp.

Above, you can watch a video where Tyson reads his answer aloud, and the mak­ers of Minute Physics pro­vide the rudi­men­ta­ry ani­ma­tion. One thing astro­physi­cists have is a knack for putting things into a deep­er con­text, often mak­ing “big” human ques­tions look remark­ably small (if not some­what absurd). Carl Sagan did it remark­ably well in his famous ‘The Pale Blue Dot’ speech. And Tyson picks up right where Sagan left off.

We still live in a world where, despite Coper­ni­cus, we think the world revolves essen­tial­ly around us. And, to the extent that that’s true, some will find Tyson’s data points dis­ori­ent­ing. Oth­ers might won­der whether we should angst so much about the ques­tions we peren­ni­al­ly ask in the first place. I guess I am kind of there today.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Neil deGrasse Tyson Lists 8 (Free) Books Every Intel­li­gent Per­son Should Read

Carl Sagan’s Under­grad Read­ing List: 40 Essen­tial Texts for a Well-Round­ed Thinker

Carl Sagan Writes a Let­ter to 17-Year-Old Neil deGrasse Tyson (1975)

Free Online Astron­o­my Cours­es, part of our larg­er col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties

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Steven Soderbergh Creates a Big List of What He Watched, Read & Listened to in 2014

640px-Steven_Soderbergh_at_the_66th_Mostra

Image by Nico­las Genin

Our vast media land­scape feels gross­ly over­sat­u­rat­ed with adver­tis­ing, pro­pa­gan­da, and all man­ner of redun­dant noise. But the dis­cern­ing eye, and ear, per­ceives just as much qual­i­ty out there as crap. “Retired” auteur Steven Soder­bergh, as fans of his will know, is just such a dis­cern­ing cus­tomer — and an exact­ing, high­ly orga­nized one at that. Soder­bergh has sworn off direct­ing film, turn­ing his atten­tion to tele­vi­sion by direct­ing the Cin­e­max series The Knick as well as—reports Indiewire—“pro­duc­ing, edit­ing, and lens­ing Mag­ic Mike XXL,” the sec­ond install­ment of the Chan­ning Tatum-star­ring male strip­per saga.

One might think all this work would keep Soder­bergh busy from dawn to dusk, but he’s a man who “gets more done in a day than most do in a week.” A con­sum­mate con­sumer of cul­ture high and low, Soder­bergh assid­u­ous­ly doc­u­ment­ed his watch­ing, read­ing, and lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ences for the entire year pre­vi­ous. His list includes TV shows like Veep and Louie, and heav­ier fare like True Detec­tive and House of Cards. He read Don­na Tartt’s The Goldfinch and Karl Ove Gnausgaard’s labo­ri­ous Prous­t­ian nov­el My Strug­gle (books one through three—in two months). In addi­tion to recent films like Gone Girl, Soder­bergh watched Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey three times and Jaws twice. He even found the time for Die Hard With a Vengeance.

The above rep­re­sents but the tini­est sam­pling of Soderbergh’s vora­cious diet. You can see the full list, includ­ing his album pur­chas­es here. As Indiewire right­ly observes, the list is “a lot to wade through.” Even more so the incred­i­ble range and diver­si­ty of cre­ative works con­tained with­in. Soder­bergh main­tained a sim­i­lar log for 2013, which you can see here. Scan­ning these may inspire you to step up your input, or maybe just to pull a man­age­able num­ber of selec­tions for future reading/viewing/listening of your own.

via Indiewire

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Steven Soder­bergh Posts a List of Every­thing He Watched and Read in 2009

Watch Steven Soderbergh’s Cre­ative Mashup of Hitch­cock and Gus Van Sant’s Psy­cho Films

Steven Soder­bergh Cre­ates Silent, Black & White Recut of Raiders of the Lost Ark to Explain the Art of “Stag­ing”

Steven Soder­bergh Writes Twit­ter Novel­la After His Retire­ment From Film­mak­ing

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Marilyn Monroe’s Go-Getter List of New Year’s Resolutions (1955)

Marilyn's Resolutions

The com­mon con­cep­tion of New Year’s res­o­lu­tions frames them as dis­pos­able ideals, not to be tak­en too seri­ous­ly or fol­lowed through past the first few months of win­ter; by spring, we all assume, we’ll be right back to our sloth­ful, glut­to­nous ways. Per­haps the prob­lem lies in the way we approach this year­ly rit­u­al. Lists of the most com­mon res­o­lu­tions tend towards the almost shock­ing­ly banal, such that most people’s desires for change are inter­change­able with their friends and neigh­bors and might as well be script­ed by greet­ing card com­pa­nies. I’d haz­ard it’s impos­si­ble to be pas­sion­ate about half-thoughts and boil­er­plate ambi­tion.

But there are those few peo­ple who real­ly pour their hearts into it, cre­at­ing lists so indi­vid­u­al­ized and authen­tic that the doc­u­ments expose their inner lives, their hopes, fears, loves, strug­gles, and deep, per­son­al yearn­ings and aspi­ra­tions. One such list that cir­cu­lates often, and which we fea­tured last year, is this gem from Woody Guthrie cir­ca 1943. It’s so com­plete­ly him, so much in his voice, that no one else could have writ­ten it, even in par­o­dy. This year, we direct your atten­tion to the list above, from Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe, writ­ten at the end of 1955 when the star was 29.

Already well-known for her act­ing in such fine films as All About Eve, Gen­tle­men Pre­fer Blondes, and The Sev­en Year Itch, Mon­roe had recent­ly been accept­ed to Lee Strasberg’s Actors Stu­dio. As Lists of Note puts it, “judg­ing by this list, she was deter­mined to make the most of her oppor­tu­ni­ties.” I’m not sure what to make of the odd use of ran­dom let­ters at the begin­ning of each res­o­lu­tion, but what the list does offer us is a glimpse into Monroe’s deep commitment—despite her feel­ing that her life was “miserable”—to grow­ing and devel­op­ing as an actor and a per­son.

See a full tran­script of her list of res­o­lu­tions below.

Must make effort to do

Must have the dici­pline to do the fol­low­ing –

z – go to class – my own always – with­out fail

x – go as often as pos­si­ble to observe Strass­berg’s oth­er pri­vate class­es

g – nev­er miss actor’s stu­dio ses­sions

v – work when­ev­er pos­si­ble – on class assign­ments – and always keep work­ing on the act­ing exer­cis­es

u – start attend­ing Clur­man lec­tures – also Lee Strass­berg’s direc­tors lec­tures at the­ater wing – enquire about both

l – keep look­ing around me – only much more so – observ­ing – but not only myself but oth­ers and every­thing – take things (it) for what they (it’s) are worth

y – must make strong effort to work on cur­rent prob­lems and pho­bias that out of my past has arisen – mak­ing much much much more more more more more effort in my anal­i­sis. And be there always on time – no excus­es for being ever late.

w – if pos­si­ble – take at least one class at uni­ver­si­ty – in lit­er­a­ture –

o – fol­low RCA thing through.

p – try to find some­one to take danc­ing from – body work (cre­ative)

t – take care of my instru­ment – per­son­al­ly & bod­i­ly (exer­cise)

try to enjoy myself when I can – I’ll be mis­er­able enough as it is.

via Lists of Note

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The 430 Books in Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s Library: How Many Have You Read?

Woody Guthrie’s Doo­dle-Filled List of 33 New Year’s Res­o­lu­tions From 1943

The Sci­ence of Willpow­er: 15 Tips for Mak­ing Your New Year’s Res­o­lu­tions Last from Dr. Kel­ly McGo­ni­gal

The Top 10 New Year’s Res­o­lu­tions Read by Bob Dylan

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Kurt Vonnegut Reveals “Why My Dog Is Not a Humanist” in His Humanist of the Year Award Speech (1992)

Note: Von­negut starts talk­ing at around the 3:40 mark.

This is human­ism, as explained by bio­chemist, sci­ence fic­tion author and for­mer pres­i­dent of the Amer­i­can Human­ist Asso­ci­a­tion Isaac Asi­mov:

Human­ists believe that human beings pro­duced the pro­gres­sive advance of human soci­ety and also the ills that plague it. They believe that if the ills are to be alle­vi­at­ed, it is human­i­ty that will have to do the job. They dis­be­lieve in the influ­ence of the super­nat­ur­al on either the good or the bad of soci­ety, on either its ills or the alle­vi­a­tion of those ills.

There’s a wide­ly dis­sem­i­nat­ed Kurt Von­negut quote that puts things even more suc­cinct­ly:

I am a human­ist, which means, in part, that I have tried to behave decent­ly with­out any expec­ta­tion of rewards or pun­ish­ment after I’m dead.

It’s a def­i­n­i­tion Von­negut, Asimov’s hon­orary suc­ces­sor as AHA pres­i­dent, a scientist’s son, and, famous­ly, a sur­vivor of the fire­bomb­ing of Dres­den, embod­ied, though sure­ly not the only one he coined.

In his 1992 accep­tance speech for the association’s Human­ist of the Year award, above, he recalls how a stu­dent pressed him for a def­i­n­i­tion. He chose to fob the kid off on bet­ter paid col­leagues at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa, but pri­vate­ly came up with anoth­er take:

…a human­ist, per­haps, was some­body who was crazy about human beings, who, like Will Rogers, had nev­er met one he did­n’t like. That cer­tain­ly did not describe me. It did describe my dog, though.

As the title of Vonnegut’s speech implies (“Why My Dog is Not a Human­ist”), Sandy, his undis­crim­i­nat­ing Hun­gar­i­an sheep­dog, ulti­mate­ly fell short of sat­is­fy­ing the cri­te­ria that would have labelled him a human­ist. He lacked the capac­i­ty for ratio­nal thought of the high­est order, and more­over, he regard­ed all humans — not just Von­negut — as gods.

Ergo, your dog is prob­a­bly not a human­ist either.

Char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly, Von­negut ranged far and wide in his con­sid­er­a­tion of the mat­ter, touch­ing on a num­ber of top­ics that remain ger­mane, some 20 years after his remarks were made: race, exces­sive force, the treat­ment of prisoners…and Bill Cos­by.

For intro­duc­tion to human­ism, please see:  Stephen Fry Explains Human­ism in 4 Ani­mat­ed Videos: Hap­pi­ness, Truth and the Mean­ing of Life & Death

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kurt Von­negut Explains “How to Write With Style”

Kurt Von­negut: Where Do I Get My Ideas From? My Dis­gust with Civ­i­liza­tion

Kurt Von­negut Dia­grams the Shape of All Sto­ries in a Master’s The­sis Reject­ed by U. Chica­go

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, home­school­er, Hoosier and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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