Apparently there was some kind of kerfuffle over an article about Twitter in Vanity Fair? Gawker’s Doree Shafrir addresses the controversy and its implications for 21st century feminism here. [Be warned, though: This post also includes spoilers for Leap Year, Daybreakers, and the first episode of the new season of “Lost” (Hurley dies).]

I don’t care about Jay Leno. Choire doesn’t care about Jay Leno. Cho probably cares about Jay Leno, but neither Choire nor I care what Cho cares about. Do you care about Jay Leno? You may. It’s a free country. All sorts of things interest all sorts of people, and thank God we’ve got a big old Internet on which you can probably find something about which you care. So, if you do in fact care about Jay Leno, here is something you might find interesting. It’s actually pretty good even if you don’t care about Jay Leno.

“Death Bear will take things from you that trigger painful memories and stow them away in his cave where they will remain forever allowing you to move on with your life.” Call Death Bear this weekend for service in Brooklyn: send texts to 347–742–2293.

Knifecrime Island and its attendant Stabby and Drinky Provinces are together now beating France, Spain and Italy in cirrhosis deaths.

This is something of an embarrassing question to ask, since all of us who’ve done time in the Garden State carry a residual shame, a sense of terrible inferiority and unworthiness, about the whole thing. Still, I’ve spent many years pondering this query and have yet to find a satisfactory answer: Why is it so goddamn hard to get a Taylor Ham & Cheese sandwich in this fucking town?

For those of you unfamiliar with the comestible treasure that is Taylor Ham (also known as “pork roll,” “the Jersey breakfast,” “the Garden State garbage plate,” “Bon Jovi bologna,” “the Cheesequake colon corrupter,” and “Jimmy Hoffa’s final resting place”), here is a helpful Wikipedia entry on the subject. Though often abused for its unsavory contents, its role as a contributing factor in a majority of diabetes cases, and its perceived culinary inferiority — even the inbred Pennsylvanians who turn their noses up at it, comparing it unfavorably to scrapple, have a point — Taylor Ham is one of those foodstuffs that, one having grown up consuming it, is deeply necessary for personal comfort and sodium replenishment. You used to be able to find the packaged version in some Met stores, but as for the menus of this allegedly cosmopolitan city’s finer dining establishments, you will search in vain for even the hint of a glistening slab of reconstituted jowl meat.

Having worked here at the Awl offices for what is rapidly approaching a year’s time now, I only today ventured over to Crif Dogs, where I was thrilled to discover the “Morning Jersey,” a frankfurter wrapped in Taylor Ham, deep fried, smothered in cheese and topped with a fried egg. Still, it was not enough. (Although, BELIEVE ME, it was enough; I’m supposed to have some blood work done next week and now I’m going to need to push it back to February so that it will have left my system by then.) Where else in New York can I find Taylor Ham, preferably served in between a hard roll, with cheese? Alcohol and cigarettes are not killing me fast enough; I feel like this might just put me over the top. Stop holding out on me, you hidden Jerseyans out there: Spill. I mean, not for nothing, it’s the least you could do, right?

Update!

“Things Co-Workers Have Shown Me That Are Worse Than A Sports-Bra,” by a lady who apparently works at Gomorrah Slag and Harlot LLP:

* bites on chest sustained during sex with bitey new guy.

* various and sundry rashes

* impressive bruises all over butt from being (consensually) spanked

* the place on the floor of an office where sex was had the night before, including the wet spot.

If you are considering going to college (which, from where I’m sitting now, looks like a big fat waste of five-and-a-half years) you should major in engineering of some sort. According to a pretty unreliable “thing found on the Internet,” seven out of the top ten undergraduate degrees by salary are in engineering. Surprisingly, sitting only 20 spots lower, a philosophy degree (stupid, Dave!) will supposedly earn you more than business administration, business management and advertising. Twenty spots lower than that, journalism languishes below nursing, English and agriculture. But just above forestry. Which will probably be incorrect by the time you read this.

Sometimes people wish for things to come true.

“I live in a republic where once a year, our President delivers an address, the State of the Union, that beyond being mandated by the Constitution, also helps to constitute our union by focusing all eyes on all three branches of our government. The annual address sets the tone for the year ahead, and helps remind us of our elected leaders’ solemn obligation to communicate their intentions to a public they so often fail while in office.” So shut the fuck up about Obama potentially pre-empting the premiere of “Lost,” Season Six, okay?