With word of Whitey Bulger’s arrest, everybody’s talking about Martin Scorsese’s The Departed. Because the Irish gangster boss played by Jack Nicholson in that movie was based on Bulger. (I saw an ABC News report yesterday about the arrest, in which a photo of Nicholson was included in a string of pictures of Bulger — with no mention of Nicholson or the movie or anything. Just, “here are some pictures of famous Boston gangster Whitey Bulger.” Except that one of them was Jack Nicholson. I was in a cab at the time. Which might explain a bit. But still, come on ABC News!) Anyway, while everyone else is talking about The Departed, which is a movie I do like a lot, you should rent or download from Netflix or whatever, an even better movie about the Irish mob in Boston: Ted Demme’s Monument Ave., starring Denis Leary, and Colm Meaney in the Bulger role. (I haven’t found anywhere that it was an explicit portrayal in this case. But with the mythology surrounding Bulger, it’s safe to assume that it at least went into the thinking.) And the Afghan Whigs’ Greg Dulli as one of Meaney’s thugs!

by Emerson Beyer

From left to right: Miss Grandma’s Backyard (Potato Salad Egg with Apricot Fizz); Mademoiselle Alsace-Lorraine (Creamy, Lemony Egg with Reisling-Plum-Rosemary Punch); Miss Soul Custardy (Vanilla Custard and Chocolate Egg in Phyllo with Peach-Cayenne Coffee Frappe); Senorita El Trionfo de la Revolucion (Chicken Liver and Havana Club Egg served with Barbadian Rum); Miss Piggie (Egg with Jowl, Side and Belly Bacon served with Mint Julep); Jury Award Winner: Miss Spicy German (Red Curry, Sweet Chili, and Spicy Chili Eggs with Home Brewed Double Wheat Ale).

There’s no activity that can’t be improved with a little competition. Down South, where I live, sporting activities are eschewed all summer. Instead we channel our competitive impulses into more genteel, less sweaty pursuits, sometimes involving fabulous straw hats!

Each summer before the mosquitos start to flourish, my husband and I host a garden party and Deviled Egg Pageant. The entrants, though not all Southern, exemplify the seersucker-shrouded bloodlust that makes summer in the South both delicious and dramatic.

As long as the weather and space permit, a Deviled Egg Pageant allows you to entertain dozens of friends and neighbors while preparing little more than a plate of ham, perhaps, and a pound cake. Your kitchen remains cool and spotless while the guests enthusiastically do the hard work.

The keys to a successful pageant are clear rules and a dress code to set the tone. (Here is a Google Doc of our house rules; take what you like and leave the rest.)

If you don’t have the space or inclination to host such a contest, preparing pageant-worthy deviled eggs is a sure way to “win” whatever parties or picnics you may attend in the summer. Here are some lessons from our pageant kings and queens.

The Egg Came First

No matter what kind of nuanced flavor profile or teetering tower of garnish you plan to construct, a good deviled egg begins with a well cooked chicken egg.

Oh, you were thinking of a goose, duck or quail egg? I can’t stop you, though I’d like to try. The chicken egg is just the right size for deviling. It is a satisfying snack for one but just big enough to share.

For deviling, you want the egg white rather firm, but not chewy. It must immediately please the palate and provide a sound textural platform for the entire recipe. The yolk should be very fully cooked, even dry, since you’ll be emulsifying it in some other fats. “Hard boiled” is misleading; it would be best if you didn’t let the egg “boil” at all.

You probably have Harold McGee’s helpful volume on your cookbook shelf. If so, turn to “Hard Cooked Eggs.” I can offer no better advice than his, but I can summarize: Use week-old eggs, having stored them on their sides to ensure symmetry. Fill the pot all the way up. Start the eggs in cool water. Bring the water to 190F, and hold it there for 15 minutes. Then immediately transfer the eggs to a bowl of ice water.

Note: You must watch the pot and/or thermometer in order to ensure you don’t overcook. With a full pot, this is interminable. Pass the time by listening to The Splendid Table.

Filling and Flavoring

The deviled egg filling that we have come to consider traditional is egg yolks mashed with (store-bought) mayonnaise. This is justifiably popular because it is delicious. In fact, the filling is itself a sort of mayonnaise — the yolk pulverized or beaten then suspended in whipped oil. Hmm, that should sound tasty, but it doesn’t! If using jarred mayonnaise, be aware that the egginess may be amplified. If that is distasteful to you, consider a vegan mayonnaise that will showcase the more delicate flavors of your gently hard-cooked yolk, rather than what to you tastes like a sulfurous, vinegary gloop.

Don’t feel bound to a recipe — you’ll get the ratios right through titration. Start by mashing 5/6 or 10/12 of your yolks thoroughly by hand. Do not put them in a food processor as this will certainly lead to runny filling. A wire dough blender is a great tool for this. Add your mayonnaise a bit at a time. Your reserved egg yolks are there so you can correct your work if necessary.

There are alternatives to mayonnaise, and you should experiment with them. Heavy cream, sour cream and creme fraiche are all options — make sure you use them near room temperature, and thicken them a bit by beating briefly with a whisk to incorporate air. A runny filling dishonors your galant egg white.

Our Audience Award Winner: Miss Japanese Southern Fusion.
Ginger-Wasabi-Black Sesame Eggs served Nigiri Style with Nori paired with Green Tea Arnold Palmer.

Advanced Techniques

Mustard is popularly used as a deviled egg flavoring. What a shame! Such a custom is likely to originate from the desire to brighten the yellow color of the filling. But, mustard also amplifies the pungency of acetic or citric acid the mayonnaise, rather than contributing complimentary flavors.

Minced fines herbes or homemade “green mayonnaise” with pounded basil, chive, dill, tarragon or watercress is a lovely way to add both craft and flavor to the egg at this stage, but the resulting greenish paste will demand cosmetic intervention when served. Please, please resist the urge to do a Dr. Seuss thing.

The most popular flavorings among our pageant entrants have been sriracha and curry. Wasabi always makes an appearance, as do jalapenos. Bold spices certainly partner well with egg, as any chilaquiles-lover knows. Steer clear of garlic, though — that’s an exception.

Are you fancy? Parlez-vous francais? Then perhaps you would like to fill your egg whites with a savory sabayon or mousse! I’m not going to get into that right now, but you should definitely consider it, and maybe we’ll talk later.

Have you ever considered a sweet deviled egg? Of course you should — egg is the unctuous heart of so many desserts. Replace mayonnaise with whipped, sweetened Neufchatel or chevre, flavor with vanilla, and garnish with a cinnamon crouton or crumbled graham crackers.

Adding Texture, Inside and Out

Even if the egg is cooked perfectly, with a firm yet delicate white, and an airy yet rich filling, the deviled egg is unfortunately rather soft and homogenous. Thoughtful non-egg additions can add textural and visual interest. They encourage bites and chewing rather than the slithery swallow of a too-fat oyster.

Bacon or other cured meats work naturally, especially along with herbs like chervil and chive. Finely diced potato, onion or apple, slowly poached or confited, can be incorporated. Beet chips, commercially fried or baked at home, are wonderful on top of a curry-flavored filling. One of our pageant’s perennial superstars this year entered a deviled egg with a cream-based, zest-brightened filling topped with good ol’ French Fried Onions, merging haute technique and common groceries into an elegant Alsatian delight.

The Right Drink

If you’re tired of reading, feel free to stop after I say: Iced Tea. Or stick with me: make it strong and very sweet. Mix it with lemonade, vodka or both. Alongside a wasabi-and-sesame deviled egg (wrapped in nori, nigiri-style, as one of this year’s pageant stars did), make a Green Tea Arnold Palmer.

Because of eggs’ traditional home on the breakfast plate, and because wine pairs just adequately (not delightfully) with eggs, breakfast offers many inspirations. How about maple-infused iced coffee spiked with bourbon and served with that guanciale-studded egg? Instead of coffee, maybe juice — perhaps a Greyhound? Wouldn’t that be nice alongside a chorizo-and-saffron egg instead of Sangria?

Punches and cups are festive and offer chances to involve more flavors to complement more complicated egg recipes. Pimms No. 1 Cup practically flooded last year’s pageant. The Alsatian beauty mentioned above came with a Riesling-Rosemary-Plum Punch. Seriously, I have such amazing friends! A shandy is great with spicy or seafood-topped eggs. Juleps are perfect if you’re feeling deliriously Southern, though a punch made of dry white wine, sherry, watercress and tonic water is more subtle and will allow you to enjoy the party longer.

Finally, don’t forget to bring your own platter or a footed plate. Those dimpled platters are terrific because they prevent the eggs from sliding around, but a bed of shredded lettuce or carrots will work fine.

K. Emerson Beyer, environmentalist and gadabout, lives with his husband, dog and cat in Durham, N.C. All four of them share Asperger’s-level concern with food, though only two of them bother helping out in the kitchen. Emerson half-heartedly retweets miscellany as @patebrisee.

Actor Peter Falk has died. He is, of course, best known for his role as Detective Columbo, but I particularly enjoyed his two collaborations with Alan Arkin, The In-Laws and the flawed but still funny Big Trouble, from which the clip above comes. Falk was 83.

The Night Clay Aiken Saved My Life

by Beth Boyle Machlan

A room full of depressives, schizophrenics and recovering addicts will almost never agree on what constitutes “Must-See TV.” The only options that night were “American Idol” and a Mel Gibson movie, the one where the kids make tinfoil hats to ward off alien mind control. Watching anything brain-related in a mental hospital — forgive me, behavioral health facility — is pretty much verboten, so we decided on “Idol.” Personally, I was more interested in my proximity to Mike on the couch, and how his hand had crept toward mine under the edge of the stiff, synthetic blanket on my lap. It was August, but you wouldn’t have known it. The air conditioner was set to “arctic,” and the skylight in the rotunda only registered day, night and rain.

In the course of three months, I had been hospitalized three times. The first time was fairly straightforward; I was depressed, and wanted to feel better. On my second trip, I still complained of depression, but something far more frightening was starting to shimmer around the edges of my vision. The world just didn’t look right. Unable to pinpoint the problem, I checked out of the hospital and headed home, thinking I could shake it off. It only took me a few days on my own to figure out exactly what was wrong: I was crazy. The word “crazy” pulsed like blood behind my eyes; it saturated the air through which I moved. I had no evidence that I was crazy, other than that I thought I was crazy, but it was enough. I began to tell people, cautiously: “I think I’m going insane.” They assured me otherwise, and in a sense they were right. I wasn’t seeing or hearing things that weren’t there (as far as I knew). But I couldn’t work, I stopped eating, and I was afraid to be alone. Less than a week after my second release, I was back in the hospital.

I had been there about three weeks when I met Mike during Activities. Everyone lost their lake privileges when another patient — my roommate in fact — pulled an Ophelia act and tried to float to her doom, so I signed up to play basketball instead. It was just him and me and one of the orderlies in the gym, and we shot some hoops. Mike and I passed the ball back and forth, taking turns hurling it in the general direction of the basket, jogging placidly after it when it went astray. I was surprised to find myself flirting. Then again, I was surprised to find myself breathing, most of the time. I even wondered how I looked, without quite making it to the point of caring. The few mirrors the hospital had were made of some sort of industrial plastic instead of glass; they flattened our faces and deadened our eyes and as a result were pretty accurate in their own warped way.

Mike looked like a slightly younger version of any guy in an Irish bar at 5:05 on a weekday — not exactly down and out, but well on his way. He was in the DD wing of the hospital, meaning Drugs and Dependency. I didn’t know too many of the DD people, just enough to predict that few of them would stay clean for more than a week after discharge. When I first earned my rotunda privileges and could mingle with everyone else, I expected to hear a lot of one-day-at-a-time talk, but there wasn’t any. It seemed as if some of them had only checked into the hospital to get back in shape to drink a little longer. I sort of envied them. I thought it must be nice to have a calling. I, on the other hand, was supposed to get better. Threatened with intravenous feedings, I had started to eat a little (contrary to popular belief, you can in fact lose weight while consuming only cake). And three times a week I rode in the hospital van to an outpatient clinic for electroconvulsive treatments.

The best part about ECT is when they put you under. After I got used to it, I was an anesthesia junkie, waiting wide-eyed and eager for the doctor to sink the syringe into my IV. It became almost erotic, an eerie nexus of drugs and sex that literally knocked me out. I liked counting to ten, knowing I’d be slurring by three, blind by four, and out by five. The drug felt like a sudden frost, as if someone was threading a tiny ice-cold wire through my vein. They told me to close my eyes, but I enjoyed watching the faces leaning over me grow fuzzy, then disappear.

Waking up was another story. Without unconsciousness to look forward to, I was just a crazy person lying on a stretcher, divided by nothing but a plastic curtain from other crazy people, hearing the moans and whimpers as they, too, swam reluctantly back to the surface. Nobody wants to come out of anesthesia. We fight the return of consciousness, mentally and physically; we thrash and wail; we vomit. We cry. Or maybe it’s just the depressed people who don’t want to come back, frustrated to find ourselves still in the world we’d been briefly, blissfully out of. Later in the day, they used that same room to perform abortions. The continuity made sense to me. Another procedure, “minor” in the surgical sense, with a wide range of potential repercussions; another operation after which you’d never be quite sure what you’d lost.

The medical community prefers to call it “ECT” but let’s call it what it is: Shock treatment. Treatment with shocks. No one knows exactly how or why it works, although it often does. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it works but sizzles out memories along with the depression. In all, I would lose about a year of my mind to ECT, but I didn’t know that yet. Right then, I just needed a reset button. A jumpstart. A jolt that would send me, like Frankenstein’s monster, staggering back into life, make my mind process normal messages again, instead of endless anxiety and pain.

Amid all that was new and, frankly, awful, Mike seemed normal. Safe. He had close-cropped hair, a little longer in front, and unlike most of my summer companions he wore clean, preppy clothes. He’d even been to a college I’d heard of, although he didn’t graduate. He looked like someone that, back in the real world, I would have liked, so I liked him, or tried to. We became a Thing. Despite — or maybe because — of the fact we were never alone, we became enough of a Thing for some crone in stirrup pants to hiss at me in the hallway, “Maybe you should think about that sweet man who brings your kids three times a week.” I didn’t see the need to tell her that thinking about “that man,” about men in general, had put me here in the first place. I had no libido to speak of, so I’m not sure what I thought I could offer anyone new. But it seemed silly to feel guilty when the situation was so absolutely asexual. Any urges I had in that area had been fried right out of me; if Mike sent any signals, they went unreceived.

By now there were about a dozen people clustered around the TV, and Mike and I were holding hands under the blanket. This made me feel special in a way I knew was completely and utterly whacked, as if I’d been picked first for Crazy Kickball, crowned queen of the Crazy Prom. If you’d asked me why I was playing handsies with a random guy under a scratchy blanket, I wouldn’t have had a reason. I’m fairly certain it had nothing to do with Mike himself. Maybe it was because he liked me, which meant there must be a me to like. Logic, in the form of my therapist, suggested comfort, but back then I believed that solace from other patients didn’t count. If they were messed up enough to be in there with me, what the hell did they know?

On the television, a bristle-headed blond man was singing. I didn’t have a TV at home, but I knew his name was Clay Aiken, and that the show was in its second season. Other patients, more recent arrivals, knew more: who had been eliminated, who the competition was, that tonight’s episode was some sort of finale. Aiken looked like a dapper angel stuck in a big purple Slinky of a stage. The Slinky was encircled with television sets in a variety of sizes that, weirdly, weren’t displaying the stage, but instead what appeared to be screensavers, as if they’d been left on too long. Aiken’s voice was a bit trilling for my taste. The spectacle itself, though, all those circles, mesmerized me. So I watched.

The song was “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers. You know the one: he’s far away, he misses someone, there are seas and streams, time goes by, he sends love and asks her or him to speed some back. What with all the water, it’s not clear where anyone is, and if you stop to think about how anyone’s supposed to catch all that flying, floating love, the whole thing makes no fucking sense. But the song somehow matched the stage, which, while blue and soothing, also looked improbable. The big screen behind Aiken circled calmly, as if about to suck him gently into a slow-moving vortex. He sang on.

I panicked. I wanted to warn him. He looked so small, so frail, so plaintively purple. And it suddenly struck me how crazy that was. For weeks I’d felt nothing but anxiety and fear; now I ached. I ached because, at that particular moment, the mass-market carnival I was watching was somehow, incomprehensibly, more normal than I was. “Normal” was a scrawny white closet case screeching on a neon stage, waiting for cell phones to shape his fate. No distance or diagnosis could account for the space between there and here, that garish platform, this half-moon of mental patients huddled around a TV. If that was normal, seriously, how hard could normal be?

I forgot all about Mike’s hand. My rigid shoulders rose up around my ears as an eerily cheerful (it’s a sad song, asshole) Aiken strode toward the song’s mid-sentence, one-verb climax. That motherfucker nailed that high note. His crowd went bananas, my crowd went bananas — well, more bananas — and ZAP, right then, Aiken’s wail did what shock treatment didn’t. There I was, as if someone had dropped my old sane mind back into my dwindling body. I wasn’t my roommate, breathing through tubes in a windowless room. I wasn’t the random guy holding my hand under the hospital blanket. I definitely wasn’t in a Hollywood audience, weeping, waving a sign I’d made myself to help a singer win. Yet amidst all that not-me I felt myself again — not like myself, but my actual self, my insides and my edges. Clay Aiken shrieked “I need,” and I remembered who I was.

“He has to win,” whispered Mike.

“I have to go,” I answered. “I just had the lamest epiphany in the history of the world.”

It has taken me eight years to realize that my recovery from that moment forward may owe as much, if not more, to ECT as it does to “American Idol.” If so, I definitely gave up part of my brain to get the rest of it working again, but that’s another story. I prefer to think of it this way: you can’t pick your epiphanies. They find you when they feel like it, in their own good time, in whatever form fits the knowledge you didn’t know you needed. Rarely ideal or elegant, real epiphanies are often inconvenient, if not downright undignified. If you wait for the lightning to work, you risk missing the messier truths that show up in unexpected, embarrassing places … like, say, Date Night in the loony bin.

Clay Aiken didn’t win that night. I can’t recall who beat him. I never saw Mike again. I still hear that note, though, that one purple, piercing word.

Beth Boyle Machlan teaches writing and rewriting to college freshmen, has blogged for Nerve, and now writes for The Faster Times. You can guess where she lives.

“Young people’s brains are developing while they are immersed in fast, multitasking technology. No one quite knows what effect this is having.”
 — Unlike, you know, playing stickball in the street. Or running around catching fireflies in an idyllic suburban backyard. Or doing math! What about all that writing by hand, with pens and paper? I bet that did crazy things to brains. Anyway, I hereby sentence David Brooks to 40 consecutive Tree of Life viewings.

“When are English women at their most beautiful? A) after 12 beers; B) after a day in the sun; C) in complete darkness.”

by Nathan Deuel

We saw the island as sun dipped below the hills. I hefted luggage onto the dock. My wife Kelly, who worked in Iraq, had flown to Turkey, where I was raising our two-year-old daughter. We’d planned a week’s stay on Burgazada, one of seven islands a short ferry ride from Istanbul. I was excited.

Pulling rolling suitcases, my in-laws followed me into town. They’d taken a plane from Chicago: Steve was a retired prison warden, and his wife, Claudia, taught eighth-grade history. Family bonding was imminent.

Boats bobbed in blue waters, and a row of fish restaurants had tables with white tablecloths set out. We saw a patisserie, with shelves of puddings and cakes. Next door was a grocery, a butcher and a produce stand.

Up the slope was a seaside community, where locals summered in wooden houses. It was here we’d rented a large apartment. As we walked up the hill, flower boxes bulged with color, and a wizened couple sat on a terrace sipping tea. A horse-drawn carriage rang its bell and we stepped to the side.

On the wrap-around balcony, Kelly held tongs, beaming through smoke, and tended a roaring grill. Claudia and Steve ooh’ed and ah’ed at the view of the pool. Candles flickered on a table, and the sun burned orange. We ate, drank and drifted to sleep.

***

In bed, we first heard the screaming. It was hard to believe how loud it was, how many birds must have been out there, and why on earth were they making so much noise? At last, for a few hours, we had quiet. But before dawn, a rooster crowed and the gulls resumed screaming. Then a dog began barking, then another. It was 4 a.m. Soon enough, hours early, our daughter Loretta woke up. I staggered into a blazing Turkish morning.

Groggily, I made coffee and rifled the cabinet for milk. Loretta padded around in bare feet. Then Kelly emerged from our room with wild hair and red eyes.

“What the fuck?” she said.

Outside, a gull swooped low, screamed, shat in the pool, then sliced into morning sky.

We went out to investigate. While it looked lovely from the terrace, up close the pool was a film of leaves, bugs and feathers. The sky above was a riot of howling birds. I found a net and began to skim, dragging along the surface, walking circles around the pool. Loretta trundled about in the grass. “Toot, toot,” she said, mimicking a ferry. Steve watched grimly from the balcony, slamming down a cup of coffee. Claudia took a long shower. The gulls screamed.

Then I spotted a bone. Hoping Kelly hadn’t seen, I scooped it up. Meat hung off the scalloped filigree of a spinal column. It was gross. Feeling nauseous, I set again to skimming, working the net faster, hoping there’d be no more gore. On a nearby tree, Kelly set up a baby swing, where Loretta settled in for a push, laughing.

Later, the birds continued to scream, and we tried to eat lunch. Sitting on the balcony, a view of a monastery in the distance, we peered into the sky. Just then, a gull and crow clashed in the sky, claws locked, retreating to rooftops to scream at each other. We decided it was baby season. I wondered if we’d need to buy a shotgun.

The next morning, skimming the pool, I was nearly knocked into the deep end. A gull arced into the sky and I heard why: it had been trying to protect its fledgling, a fluffy bird the size of a toaster, which bleated plaintively. The young gull blinked at me, lifting a foot into its feathers. It shat, then skittered into the bushes. By a deck chair, I saw half of what the bird had been eating. The carcass looked like a gull — cannibal! — the meat nearly torn off, a red smear. In the pool, rolling in the current, two sparkling spines had been pecked clean.

After another mostly sleepless night, I stood on the balcony early in the morning and eyed the water. Was it filled again with bugs and bones? Yes, it was. By a deck chair splattered in shit, the baby gull pecked at a pile of meat. I shuddered.

Around the kitchen, morale was low. The in-laws emerged from bed, and I made sure a pot of coffee was gurgling.

“Fucking birds,” I stammered, cutting into a peach.

Claudia agreed immediately.

“I know,” she hissed. “I hate them.”

Kelly and I went for a run, tracing the edge of the island to its western terminus. We’d been living apart for most of a year but had fallen back into a rhythm. The gulls thinned out in the hills, and we ran happily into hot wind, gaining distance with every step from the screaming birds. Her footfalls made time beside my own. Soon enough, Kelly would be back in Iraq. That was what made the birds and bones so frustrating. This was supposed to be our time together.

Panting from the run, I sat in the pool and looked up to see birds locked in battle. They were inescapable.

***

One morning, entering our yard after a grocery trip to town, I saw the baby gull and thought maybe it had gotten bigger. Then it began to pump fuzzy wings. I held my breath. It flew, but only for five feet or so.

Despite it all, a pattern began to form: Coffee in the morning, a long breakfast. A run for Kelly and me, then a swim with Loretta. Claudia took the little girl on a long walk. Steve pushed her in the swing. We’d nap after lunch and swim through the afternoon. Dinner featured fish. The days melted into one another, and to my immense relief, the bones and the cries of the birds became just another part of a vacation routine.

On the second-to-last day, Loretta napped, and I stretched out in the bedroom. I heard Kelly in the lounge, talking to colleagues about flack jackets, battle helmets and satellite phones. Sleepy and heartsick, I tiptoed out to give her a set of headphones, hoping to muffle half a conversation I didn’t want to hear in the first place.

That night, I dreamt of a plane crash and desperate search for survivors. In the dark, birds screamed.

***

The last morning on the island, methodically packing and cleaning, I found one more bloody bone, and I thought about how different my life was from my wife’s. In Istanbul, I was mainly a father, and each night I gave our daughter a bath, put her to bed, then cleaned up the house. Kelly, meanwhile, lived behind blast walls, guarded by men with machine guns. For this one strange week, it hadn’t been perfect, but at least we’d been together. Knowing where Kelly was headed — a place with noises louder than birds — I dreaded saying goodbye.

I stared at the bone.

***

That final morning, we boarded the boat alongside a crush of weekend visitors. I regarded other families with a mix of envy and wonder. A woman in head scarf and black abaya patted her son’s head. A father, who spoke gentle Arabic, guided two of his girls to the bathroom. Maybe they were seeking refuge from Bahrain, Syria, or Yemen?

The ferry to Istanbul crashed across blue water, bringing us all closer to our lives on shore. The cycle was beautiful and also sad. To a certain degree, we were probably all getting used to it, and as spring became summer, the days would slide by.

Nathan Deuel is a writer who lives in Turkey and in Iraq. When he quit his last real media job — at Rolling Stone — he packed a bag and walked from New York to New Orleans. His other writing can be found here.

Photo from Flickr by recrotka.

“The party was friendly but ultimately like all other startup parties: serial startup consultants Rex Sorgatz and Rachel Sklar showed up, as did several members of the ad agency Barbarian Group… [People] were surprised to find I’d just asked my way into the party; everyone else attending was a friend or a friend’s plus-one, which probably proves that the same ten people are doing everything in New York startup-land.”
 — Startup launch parties reviewed: “Fortnighter.” (Previously: the “Socialisting” launch party.)

This is about a month old, but today happens to be Friday so I am not gonna worry too much about issues of novelty. Anyway, here is Mr. Costello performing the Prince classic “Purple Rain.” Enjoy! [Via]

“The story spends the requisite time on Elizabeth’s man-baiting and chomping ways, but it’s her relations with these women that help make Bad Teacher into something more than the latest in big-screen giggles and flatulence…. A funny woman with too many unfunny movies on her résumé, Ms. Diaz was born too late for the kind of rich Hollywood career she deserves…. It’s painful, though, watching her slum through What Happens in Vegas, playing off an unworthy foil like Ashton Kutcher, another reason it’s a relief to see her surrounded by the talent packed into Bad Teacher.
 — This Manohla Dargis review is a great case of criticism as advocacy journalism! It might as well be addressed to “Dear Hollywood.” This is a good thing! Also I am going to see the holy heck out of this movie.