Sordid Snout
The Herald
Feeble Grass Moth
Dead-wood Borer
The Betrothed
The Little Wife
Serene Underwing
The Consort
Dejected Underwing
Inconsolable Underwing
Tearful Underwing
Sad Underwing
The Penitent
Sappho Underwing
Youthful Underwing
Darling Underwing
The Sweetheart
Joined Underwing
Semirelict Underwing
Once-Married Underwing
Girlfriend Underwing
Connubial Underwing
Delilah Underwing
Steely Underwing
Wonderful Underwing
Sweet Underwing
Indomitable Melipotis
Merry Melipotis
False Heather Drasteria
Confused Zale
Once-charred Punkie
Blurry-patched Nola
Beautiful Looper
Sandstorm Tumbler
Tricolored Angel
The Laugher
Fingered Dagger
Fragile Dagger
Splendid Dagger
Afflicted Dagger
Hesitant Dagger
Night-Wandering Dagger
The Hebrew
Cadbury’s Mystique
Cherry Agate
Overlooked Paint
Asteroid Paint
Scribbled Sallow
Turbulent Phosphila
Boreal Sprawler
Shivering Pinion
Sloping Sallow
Roadside Sallow
Straw-eyed Tentmaker
Tawny Tentmaker
Smoky Tentmaker
Adorable Sallow
Subdued Quaker
Cunning Woodling
Stormy Arches
Explicit Groundcat
Disparaged Groundcat
Cynical Groundcat

“Anus”entered the English language in 1658. Uranus was named by the guy who found it in 1781. So that fucker knew exactly what he was doing.

— Andy Daly (@TVsAndyDaly) January 8, 2012

Photographer Doug Rickard used Google Street View to find pictures for his latest show at the Museum of Modern Art.

According to Rickard, this epiphany fused immediately into a crystal-clear idea: He would use Street View as his camera and, working from a room in his home, travel the roads of neglected American cities and neighborhoods in a 21st-century “road trip.” This single idea would utterly consume his life for close to two years, resulting in the important body of work “A New American Picture,” a selection of which hangs today in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Read between the lines of an old family recipe and you’re liable to read the story of the family itself. The scrawled marginalia and cooking stains, the collective memory of shared feasts—they might as well be alleles in the genome. Maybe it’s the chicken soup your aunt makes by the gallon during flu season, or the roast your mother overcooks every Easter. Maybe, if you’re lucky, your dad has taught you the secret to a perfect Old Fashioned, which he learned from his uncle, who learned it from his bookie. For my family, the recipe that defines us as a tribe, and whose origins best reflect our idiosyncrasies, is my grandfather’s babka.

If my grandfather didn’t exist, Philip Roth would have had to invent him. Seymour Byock grew up in Newark, between the wars, during the Depression and the golden age of stickball. He left school at 13 to man his father’s soda fountain, and a few years later he married pretty Ruthie Grubstein, literally the girl next door. He was Sy to his intimates, a constituency that comprised half of Northern Jersey. He was garrulous and funny, a humanistic Jewish patriot with an irrepressible passion for food. After he was conscripted into the Second World War, a clerk at the local draft office asked if, by any chance, he had experience as a baker. “As a matter of fact, sir, I do!” Sy said. This was not, strictly speaking, the truth. But he could grill a hamburger and pour a root beer float; how hard could baking be? Uncle Sam had tossed him a life preserver and Sy intended to seize it.

Found. December 31, 2011.

Each day this week, the Book Bench will feature an excerpt from “It Chooses You,” by Miranda July. The book, to be published on November 15th, recounts July’s adventures with a series of strangers she met through the classified ads in the PennySaver. The encounters helped her finish the script for her film “The Future” — and one of the strangers played a key role in it.

Lucy tweeted this miraculous find, and I’ve enjoyed very much what I’ve seen so far. Here are the links to each excerpt:

It Chooses You

Joe. Fifty Christmas-Card Fronts, $1. Los Angeles.

…

Sheila, I see a Freecycle version of this in your future.

Our lead bird dog Tuffy would bring Miss Nell gifts of terrapins and turtles, try to drop them in her lap as she shooed him away. We always wondered why that? But now I’m remembering the people who walked by his pen after fishing the woods ponds and swamps. We’d stop them and examine their catches. They were big on turtle soup and often had a big one on a hook or rope. Did Tuffy “get” that? That the big terrapins he captured and ran with in his mouth back to the one person who resisted his love were considered great prizes by some? I mean, dogs, cats, owls, they just want to be friends.

Sibby had the Ziploc out, the one she filled with the spider’s eggs she’d find in the backyard. These are gifts from the Lord, she told me once. He sprinkled them around for me to find. Now she worked the Ziploc under her shoe, slowly mashing the eggs and baby spiders spilling out, like there was great pleasure in it. That what God told you to do with the eggs, I asked her. God told me plenty of times to smash your face under Daddy’s mallet, Sibby said, but sometimes I don’t exactly obey God. She finished her mashing, took off her one shoe and left it over the Ziploc. Let her sock get black with dirt. Why’d you do that, I asked her. Because, she said. She peeled off her sock, laid it out on the back step beside me. They were fixin to hatch, and without no mother it was dumb for me to let them be born. She disappeared into the house behind me.

(thanks, Derek)