Great Books, Half Read.

Like many a city-dweller engaged in the journey from one place to the next, it seems as though I’m in a constant state of motion. If you were to see me heading west on 23rd Street, and then dashing across the park, and then jumping down the stairs — two, sometimes three at a time — of the N/R Station outside the Flatiron, you might think I was just another harried citizen, running typically (read: insanely) late for an appointment, annoyed by any impediments or hindrances he might encounter along the way — specifically, the tourists outside of Eataly.

The thing is, I’m not late. I walk fast. Very fast. Even for a New Yorker. And so, to this day, I continue on — my eyes to the ground, my head bobbing from side to side, a pair of 1987-chic, grey Sony headphones plugged into my iPhone, a perpetually overstuffed tote bag slung over one shoulder — at velocities just short of a run.

Such would be the end of my story if it weren’t for one small detail: I’m no longer in New York. Read more at The Huffington Post.

If too many cooks spoil a broth, then how many fashion designers does it take to cause a meltdown? Just one, and her name is Sp*rkle. 

This past Saturday, at the opulently spledorifically magnificentesimal Villa di Waterloo Station du Palais-Royal de Lincoln Center d’Oyster Bay Expressway, the who’s who of the crème de la crème de la crème (de la crème) of the crème de menthe of the écureuil dans un chapeau particulièrement adorable of the fashion world gathered to bask in the certain radiant glow of magic and delight and whimsy that is Sp*rkle.

People not of the fashion world (kindergarteners, botanists, Jacobins) certainly might remember Sp*rkle from her tweenage heartthrob days, that former Mouseketeer turned singer-songwriter, turned songwriter-actress-director-producer, turned producer-stunt-coordinator-caterer-DJ-taxidermist-ping-pong-champion (non-sexual), turned several dozen other hyphenated things, too. For those living in a cave — especially caves that don’t receive Women’s Wear Daily – her name had been buzzing around the runways and editorial offices, and certainly not just because of the asterisk in the middle of it. No, this was because Sp*rkle had recently decided to take a stab at fashion. Read more at The Huffington Post.

Are you a family searching for an escape from the hustle and bustle (or current lack of electricity and running water) of city living? A young novelist, seeking the isolation and inspiration of the rural countryside? Or perhaps a group of spring breakers and/or recent high school graduates and/or documentary filmmakers, young and nubile and in no way expecting anything out of the ordinary, out for a weekend of beer and sex and fun?

Then look no further than this fabulous, one of a kind Victorian mansion, located on several prime acres of remote fog-shrouded swamp-forest that, for some peculiar reason, doesn’t exist on modern maps. With its soaring ceilings, mahogany finishes and original fixtures (666 of them in all), you could positively, inescapably get lost in this 13 BR, 13 BA gem! Perfect for children, pets, living entities of just about any kind, it’s the luxury of peace and quiet (which in no way arrests or obstructs the laws of nature as you know them despite any anecdotal evidence to the contrary) that you truly deserve! Read more at The Huffington Post.

Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow Americans. Remember me? That’s right, it’s President Bill Clinton. No spooky holograms, no wooden chairs. But enough about Paul Ryan.

What an honor it is to be back here tonight, in front of you, as plain old Bill, president before that other guy who nobody — and I mean nobody — wants to talk about, especially the Republicans. And remember the ’90s? That wonderful time when I was president, when everybody was watching The Real World, doing the “Macarena,” earning heaping gobs of cash, when our biggest worry was whether or not we’d be spending our budget surplus on tax breaks or NATO Allied Command Operations air strikes against Ken Starr and the old Office of the Independent Council. Back then, we didn’t even have cell phones to call those things in. Now we have cell phones and iPhones and GPS and TiVo and all sorts of other newfangled devices. It boggles the mind. Read more at The Huffington Post.

The United Kingdom of England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and Denmark (long story) is most honoured, indeed, to be hosting the 2012 Olympic Games. From the same people who brought you William Shakespeare, Winston Churchill, Magna Charta (Google it), an assortment of castles, palaces and royal cousins, Westminster Abbey, Downton Abbey and One Direction comes the grand and glorious spectacle that is the 2012 Opening Ceremonies, all in celebration of the sweeping cultural contributions and peaceful international presence of the British peoples, paying no particular attention to our military history from, say, 1604 to 1948.

For those of our foreign guests, dignitaries, officials and athletes arriving from over 150 foreign countries (i.e., anywhere east of Bexley) who were able to avoid any ongoing airport, bus, catamaran, plane, train or automobile strikes by choosing an alternate means of transportation (e.g., dirigible, catapult, British Airways) and thereby managed to make it inside the United Kingdom despite the best efforts by the agents of Her Majesty’s Immigration Services (all six of them) to keep each and every one of you out, welcome! For those of you stuck at some point along the way, please be patient. With time, the problem will surely resolve itself. Read more at The Huffington Post.

Dear Muggles,

Some wonderful news! To mark the release of all seven volumes of Harry Potter in eBook format, the Norton Library, in conjunction with David Cameron’s Big Society and J.K. Rowling’s No Child-Actor Left Behind initiative, is pleased to announce the release of its very own, definitive Norton Critical Edition ofHarry Potter!

Produced with the British Government to offset any economic fallout from hosting the Olympic Games, painstakingly researched by some of the best literary minds at Oxford and Cambridge because on-location filming of the Harry Potter series is over and tourists just don’t visit like they used to and please help us, and compiled under the watchful eyes of our Norton editors now that all interest in Dryden and Milton has dried up because everybody’s spending their time and money on ridiculous new contraptions upon which to play that even more ridiculous Angry Birds Guitar Warcraft Move Dance Dance game or whatever it’s called while they’re all hopped up on Skittles and Pepsi-Cola even though it’s three o’clock in the morning and some people have to go to work the next day and are trying to get some sleep, we’ve completely lost track of this sentence. The point being: Child actors don’t feed themselves, and Ms. Rowling’s castle needs a bigger moat. Read more at The Huffington Post.