Starting with "I don't know what you're talking about" by itself would have neatly precluded the use of "no comment," which is always an admission of sorts. Just sayin'.
I thought Pluto was demoted and no longer a planet? And Bjork was no longer of interest? (The latter might just be me.)
Erm, I hope my sarcasm was palpable.
Thank goodness heterosexual writers would never even dream of abusing their power like that.
I recently watched "Duane Hopwood" and I didn't understand what it was about other than Schwimmer's desire to make a quirky (turkey costume!) but somewhat edgy (alcoholism!) indie movie. He could have pulled it off, too, if he'd only bothered to find a plot.
I would say that Thompson, Kerouac and Bukowski are definitely cliches for bohemian wannabes. This is not a value judgment (although with the barest encouragement I could expound on that as well). Slightly more creative bohemians might want to at least aim for Celine or Henry Miller, no? Or (*gag*) Tao Lin.
What is the etiquette for a stranger telling you that they lost their job at Subway because they have unidentified sores on their arms? He wasn't crying when he told me this.
I love Blondie (or rather, some of their songs), but have you read the lyrics to Heart of Glass? It reads like it was written using Google Translate.
Read "The Lost Weekend" - it ends differently than the movie. Dude's pretty unrepentant.