“Analysis of swimming pool water samples, combined with the results of experiments involving chlorination of uric acid, and chlorination of body fluid analog mixtures, indicated that uric acid chlorination may account for a large fraction of CNCl formation in swimming pools. Moreover, given that uric acid introduction to pools is attributable to urination, a voluntary action for most swimmers, these findings indicate important benefits to pool water and air chemistry that could result from improved hygiene habits on the part of swimmers,” says Science, but we should note that this study was partially funded by the National Swimming Pool Foundation, and we all know about their anti-pool-peeing agenda.

“Laura Ustick was fiddling with her phone at a bar on a Friday night when she noticed a glaring hole in the phone’s lexicon of emojis — those pictogram-like characters that some people ignore and others have adopted as a second language. There are emojis for ice cream, puppies, cars, pizza and sushi, but not for the all-American hot dog.”

“Finnbar! Get in the stroller right now, I mean it!” #brooklyn

— Sam Dolnick (@samdolnick) March 26, 2014

“Now New Yorkers know what President Obama means when he talks about a nuclear freeze: It’s the blood-chilling sensation that he inflicted by expressing worry about an atomic attack here…. Coming out of the blue, the statement carried the suggestion that Obama had grounds for fears that were more terrible and immediate than the general threat level that has shadowed life in the five boroughs for almost 13 years. We could have done without visions that loomed — a mushroom cloud over Rockefeller Center, a radiation-poisoned Times Square — out of the President’s attempt to defend his policy toward Russia by saying, in effect, that Putin is no Bin Laden.”
 — It is always instructive to see just what kind of a coward the local tabloids think you should be, but listen up: If the President mentioning the most obvious national security concern any administration should ever have causes you to pee your pants in fear or cower in some corner you need to pack your things and move to a place where no one would ever dream of attacking because it is so useless and ravaged already that dropping some kind of bomb on it would only be an improvement. You know where I mean. [Related]

Among the girls who have attended Marlborough, the first major independent school to go co-ed, starting with its 1968 sixth form — there is a more fascinating trend. For here, the brightest and best are listed remarkably often next to the words ‘wife of.’ Most famous, of course, is the Duchess of Cambridge, ‘wife of’ our future king. But see also, Samantha Cameron, ‘wife of’ the Prime Minister. Frances Osborne, ‘wife of’ the Chancellor. Sally Bercow, ‘wife of’ the Speaker. Diana Fox, ‘wife of’ the Governor of the Bank of England…. Its reach of influence stretches across the internet, fashion, the BBC and Hollywood, through old girls Amanda Rosenberg (dating Google founder Sergey Brin); Amanda Harlech (former wife of Lord Harlech, and muse to Karl Lagerfeld); Elizabeth Ann Clough (long-term partner of Jeremy Paxman); and Georgina Chapman, ‘wife of’ Oscar-winning producer Harvey Weinstein.

The Telegraph issues the most delightful school news of all, if you’re still catching up on “how to live like it’s the 1700s.” And best, Marlborough is a seven day a week boarding school, so you never have to see the kiddo until graduation. Fly free from your parents and into the arms of some wealthy man, little Croatia, Arugula and Persephone!

Checking In With My Pile Of Rejected ‘New Yorker’ Cartoons

by Esther C. Werdiger

In 2012, in a rare moment of actual confidence, I mailed an envelope of cartoons to famous New Yorker cartoon editor Robert Mankoff (who, for the short number of weeks surrounding this event, I referred to, in my head, as Bob). I never heard back. Which, I mean, was not a surprise. I’d been doing a lot of drawing, almost entirely for the Internet, and almost entirely for free. The Internet can be a tricky thing; sometimes it feels like there are countless outlets and platforms for creative people, and other times, it all just feels a little pointless. Content is disposable, and whether or not you contribute to it, and whether or not it’s good, a steady stream will keep coming, and it will fill up every space we are in, until our desperate little mouths are pressed up against a small air vent in the ceiling.

So, like I said, I sent some cartoons to the New Yorker. I felt ready. I asked an actual New Yorker cartoonist for tips. She told me I need to send 10 individual cartoons — photocopies only, by post. I wasn’t sure how it worked; if he liked one, did I get to redraw a nicer version? Did they have to be magazine-ready? Did the caption have to be in that font, or could I just do it by hand for now? The single panel thing was new for me — most of my cartoons are stories about myself, and not particular funny. And the bits I thought were funny were never the same as the bits other people thought were funny. But a lot of New Yorker cartoons aren’t that funny anyway, and like I said, I felt confident. I put all the original drawings away in a folder.

I pulled them out the other day. A few, I thought, were still good! Some were definitely past their sell-by date. And some were probably never funny at all. I felt embarrassed of how hopeful I’d been. Although, you have to feel hopeful sometimes — otherwise you’d never do things like go on dates and apply for jobs. Sometimes rejection happens! Rejection facilitates success! Right? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Here are my dumb cartoons.

I still think this is good! I like that it’s weird, and a little bit dark. I should have just posted it on Tumblr. “17 notes” is better than nothing. Or is it?

What I was trying to do here, I think, was make a A New Yorker Cartoon.

What can I say? I still think this is hilarious.

This would have killed in 2011.

This is terrible. I was trying to make a Nietzsche a joke, while also making a Twilight joke, while also making a joke about asshole professors, or something. I admit, it’s confusing. And a scenario in which a professor is talking to a student about being mean to his children doesn’t seem that probable.

I felt like I had to include a therapy cartoon. I don’t think it’s that bad, but it’s still in the vein of A New Yorker Cartoon. Still though, I fondly remember laughing as I drew it.

I guess this is the only autobiographical one. I once yelled the same thing from a couch, and it made me laugh, so I drew it a few days later. I guess none of these cartoons are particularly concise or punchy. The New Yorker should still send rejection letters, though.

Not funny. But like, onto something, I just know it!

Okay, I think this is a little more concise and punchy, and also sort of sweet. It’s about a ghost who lacks confidence! He has to believe in himself! Ghosts! Believing! I guess it’s not that funny.

I’m not really proud of this one. It’s pretty stupid. But also I could totally imagine it in the New Yorker? You know?

I’m still trying to figure out what kind of artist I am, but I am probably not A New Yorker Cartoon type of artist. I should just stick to making longer comics that take ages to draw, but seconds to read, and that don’t really make me any money. They are deeply gratifying, in a way. I’m like a volunteer of the Internet. And as anyone who has worked at a non-profit knows, volunteers are really important.

Esther C. Werdiger writes, draws, podcasts, and lives in New York. You can read her “League of Ordinary Ladies” here.

★★★ Everything lay in brilliantly sharp focus, the colors clear and saturated. The brightness was no compensation for the biting cold — now plainly and a little ridiculously out of season — but on its own terms, it was a thrilling sight. A dog went skidding on the dry pavement, unwilling, as its leash-holder detoured to throw something in a trashcan. A woman wore a scarf as a babushka, with her mobile phone tied against her face so she could talk on it. The light gleamed on the chrome of the production trailers using up all the space where the moving van was supposed to go. At dinnertime, the toddler pointed up to the Mormons’ angel where it stood in the lowering sunlight, going from flaring gold to copper to bronze. The toddler expected water should come from its trumpet.

★★ The wind early on was not necessarily wintry by the thermometer, but there was nothing springlike about it. The sky was flat gray and the river even flatter — the latter the color of off-white paint, as if someone had worked in the details of the New Jersey and Manhattan skyline and had yet to fill in the horizontal band between them. Two flaring white spots marked the late sun, then a blurry square. At last, the sun descended to reach a band of clear sky in the west, and simultaneously the clouds at the zenith dissolved to blue, with only shred of white remaining; beams of hot golden light bounced from building to building, spanning blocks. After dark, in the cleared cold air, there was nothing approximate about the wintriness.

“Three-quarters of a century ago, Swedish authorities tried to put a stop to the pernicious encroachment of international pop music, and instead they accidentally built a hothouse where it flourished.”

This is actually a rather pleasant diversion for an afternoon such as this one and I am fairly confident that you will find it as appealing as I have, so please do make sure to give yourself some time to enjoy it. [Via]