Because no one asked, even though my birthday falls in December and is therefore an official part of the holiday season, I’m supplying a list I hope my family sees of the awesome-est of the practical things I am unwilling to spend my money on because I’m saving up for fancy shoes, a puppy, and an iPad.

	Running down the subway steps while caffeinating is dangerous business. Here’s to one less insanely hot spill on dress pants.
	Because I work downtown, in the skyscraper-y part of Boston, walking from the train station to my office means I must survive a wind tunnel both ways, rain or shine, wind or calm. This is the country equivalent of walking-miles-to-school-in-winter-shoeless-uphill-both-ways dramedy, a story that is a favorite of grandfathers nation-wide. I buy approximately one new umbrella a month, because it is always raining in Boston. If only someone would make a portable umbrella that can withstand gale force winds without also acting as a para sail. I’m looking for it to last between 6 months and forever.
	I’ve recently gotten into soup, which is easy to make and pretty cheap if you shop at the farmers’ market. The more I cook the more I realize the major plight facing the kitchens of the world today: how do you set down and pick back up a hot pot lid without making a mess or burning your hand. Idlers, this is the key to safe seasoning.
	If none of these things are available, I will also accept one of these keyboard options for the iPad I plan to buy myself. (Or, the less portable version.)

—

Kate Sloan is a writer and editor living in Boston, MA. She’s the smart girl at the party. You can read her blog at http://staycutegirl.wordpress.com/ and follow her on Twitter at @kate_sloan.

By the time I caught my breath January was upon us. I was an aunt. I had traveled to Detroit twice. And my older sister had gotten married. I was sleeping on a regular basis, more or less. It was time to write.

Gavin and I went back and forth on a few column ideas before settling on comic/graphic novel reviews. I wrote my very first piece for the site on Alison Bechdel. If I were to describe my crush on Alison Bechdel in one word it would be BOUNDLESS. If I could describe it in eight words I would say, I’m ready to put a ring on it.

Bechdel’s long-running strip Dykes to Watch Out For, perhaps did more to get me comfortable out of the closet than the previous five years being out of the closet did.

Read her. Love her. Propose to her and I will have to fight you.

It’s terribly hard to pick a favorite Idler column that I didn’t write and not feel like I’m playing favorites. Also, some of my favorites have already been noted by the editors. I love Jill Kolongowski’s piece about us getting unintentionally black out drunk at 5 pm on a sunny patio in downtown Boston on her birthday. The writing is smart and brave and I also like anything that is indirectly about me.

I love Ana Holguin’s “On winning and losing it” because it challenged me to consider this trending train wreck in a different way and also made me examine how society was appropriating language. Chain language like #winning is catchy, but people also used to wear stone washed jeans and over-sized pocket t-shirts and Keds.

I also particularly enjoyed Lindsey Malta’s “The seven deadly sins for children,” in which Lindsay deconstructs the holy tome that is the musical movie Rumpelstiltskin (1987) starring Amy Irving and Billy Barty. The breakdown of sins is pitch perfect. I’m hoping she’ll be inspired to do a similar watching of the Disney tales a la this cracked.com piece on beloved characters with undiagnosed mental illnesses.

In the past month or so I’ve grown weary of picture books and have instead started writing a few pieces on city livin’ and being queer. Mostly I am biding my time until Bechdel publishes her next book. If her book tour comes to Boston you can bet your idle selves that I will have tales of slipping her my number and a formal proposal in comic form at Harvard Book Store.

—

Kate Sloan is a writer and editor living in Boston, MA. She’s the smart girl at the party. You can read her blog at http://staycutegirl.wordpress.com/ and follow her on Twitter at @kate_sloan.

I’m not looking to online date per say, as I’m more than a little bit taken, but I’m not exactly asking for a friend either.

You probably don’t know this but online dating sites are very prominent tools in the gayverse. One in particular, OkCupid, is the undisputed leader, at least here on the coast. Literally every friend I make IRL is on this site. At dinner parties they talk about their match, friend, and enemy percentages with each other. It was like an impenetrable secret language. And because I have a very hard time not participating in social conversations I decided to join. Also, my girlfriend has a profile, and I’m a big believer in relationship equality.

Setting up a profile was easy enough. Pick the two decent photos of yourself taken in the last year. Write some B.S. in the about me section about liking nature and expression and cooking for others (you’ve gotta look marketable). List movies and books and music that make you look smart but not pretentious. Try to write a joke. It’s okay if it’s just a little funny, no one expects you to be Tina Fey. And then, the questions.

Dear god, this site has questions for days. Intimate questions that you not only answer but indicate acceptable answers for potential matches, and then rate the importance of this question to you.

It’s more exhausting than taxes.

My profile is only 80% complete. According to the sidebar threats it will remain at 80% until I write 500 words in my profile. I’m not trying to write a college application essay here. I’m trying to make more friends who like dinosaurs and stupid comedies and nerdy librarian stuff.

I assume online dating is popular in universes other than the queer one I inhabit here in Boston, but I would think to a lesser extent. Though a quick informal survey of my straight friends seems to indicate EVERYone is on this site. We, the people, like that it’s free and that the interface is friendly, and that building your profile works like a personality quiz.

Several of my friends are currently in serious relationships that began on what my friend Jess calls the Cupes. Some of these relationships have lasted longer than many of my other friends’ first marriages.

So what is it about this site that is so appealing to the girl scouts of Boston?

Well, for starters, a lot of us are on there. It also has cool analytics, like what geographical locations would be most favorable to you, getting laid-wise.

You know where I'll be hanging out.

It’s a great way to pseudo-stalk lesbians in the area. That way, when you go out with your friends to Queeraoke you can point out everyone in the room you recognize from their profiles and maybe even include awkward message exchange anecdotes. The site acts as a tool for shrinking a kind of disparate, marginalized community. It’s our local coffee shop/ grocery store/ bar.

The demographic is young. And anything that gets popular is able to retain momentum for that reason. You’re not going to use an unpopular dating site and significantly diminish your chances of meeting the lady/dude of your dreams.

According to my friend D., “There is no other way to meet them because they all stay at home with their cats.” You gays, she’s so right. Just because you leave the closet doesn’t mean you leave the living room.

Sites like this make a semi-invisible community more visible to its members. And Boston, being a city of transplants, benefits because all queers need queer friends in their new city, and it’s always better to see a photo or to know before meeting if the person is a big Nickleback fan. It’s inexcusable, no matter how pretty their face is.

I also hear it has great Harry Potter quizzes.

—

Kate Sloan is a writer and editor living in Boston, MA. She’s the smart girl at the party. You can read her blog at http://staycutegirl.wordpress.com/ and follow her on Twitter at @kate_sloan.

Imagine with Steinbeck

This summer saw the fall of a giant, an institution, that truth be told had been teetering for quite some time. And I’m not talking about Arnold, or Bin Laden, or Justin Beiber’s hair.

I’m talking about the fall of Borders. The emptying of bookshelves is about the saddest thing I can think of. It hurts the very part of my heart that houses all I hold dear, like my mother, and cranberry sauce, and moccasins.

Your fancy book learnin’ ways are being threatened, dear friends. On less chain means countless fewer author readings, less promotion of new voices, fewer books available to browse and buy and read and love in less affluent, out-of-the-way places.

With the closing of Shaman Drum and the Borders flagship store, Ann Arbor has rendered itself nearly useless when it comes to book shopping. Though the best of us know that Schuler Books in East Lansing has always been where it’s at.

This past weekend I took my first pilgrimage to the book lover’s mecca. If you don’t know that I’m talking about Strand in NYC I suggest you do your research immediately before you go on declaring yourself a bibliophile.

Established in 1927 on Fourth Avenue, Strand was at one time a part of New York’s Book Row. Book Row was a series of 48 bookstores started in the 1890’s that ran from Union Square to Astor Place. Or as I like to think of it: heaven.

Strand is famous for a few things:

1. 18 miles of books (for reals)
2. used, rare, and out of print editions (beyond your wildest dreams) and
3. independent ownership.

18 miles. No joke.

Shopping at an independent bookstore when cheaper options like Amazon are available usually indicates that the patrons are affluent. Also, they value education and local businesses and put their money where their support is.

Unfortunately, books are a recreational good, not strictly necessary for survival, though you could argue for hours on all the ways they nourish. Shopping at independent book stores is a certain type of socioeconomic privilege often not acknowledged. Indies do best in upper-middle-class neighborhoods where education is king. Ann Arbor (home to U of M), East Lansing (home to MSU), Grand Rapids (home to Grand Valley State University). Here in Boston, indies are currently flourishing in Brookline (the only city in the world capable of producing Conan O’Brien) and Cambridge (Harvard). It’s no mystery why Strand thrives in a place like New York City. Count all the colleges within city limits and you’ll have your simple solution.

No matter your feelings on corporations are, it’s a sad day to see a bookstore fold. The simple equation is this: Fewer bookstores=fewer books.

Sometimes life plays out like an anti-You’ve Got Mail. FOX books has fallen. Shop Around the Corner though, well, she’s ready to go the the mattresses.

Still here. Still perky.

A quick note to anyone in NYC: If you show your Borders membership at Strand you’ll get a free (undisclosed) gift!

Growing up, my father instilled in me a reverence for the things he loved most: John Wayne, pro wrestling, bow hunting, and Detroit baseball. If we weren’t watching Full House or WrestleMania (exclusively for Hulk Hogan) on a lazy summer afternoon we were watching the Tigers.

Throughout my life baseball has been a comfort to me. The dusty cleats on the infield. The perfect white lines. The green, green grass. The pop of a bat on a home run. The stolen bases. The mustaches. The blue, white, and orange. I love it all.

Last August I moved to the east coast and this spring I experienced my first opening day living in Red Sox nation. On April 8th, the Sox played (and bested) the Yankees at Fenway. That morning a tide of red and white and blue swept through the city. On my morning train I observed a woman done up in devotion with Red Sox shoelaces, jacket, visor, earrings, purse. The fact that she had stopped short of adorning herself in an official uniform was what was truly surprising.

Though I never check the schedule, I always know when the lights will be on at Fenway. On every street downtown a shuffling sea of caps, shirts, and jerseys clogs the bricks of Copley Square from T stop to my destination, where ever it may be.

These people are my friends and coworkers. These people are the people I depend on. They cook the meals, they haul the trash, they connect the calls, they drive they ambulances. They guard me while I sleep. You do not fuck with them.

It’s an interesting experience, to move from one big sports city to another. To suddenly find yourself watching the Bruins at the bar because the Wings aren’t on. To wake up one day and realize you root for the Celtics, and begin fostering an unrequited love of Glen Davis. To be constantly surrounded by a slew of base-hit reports credited to names you don’t recognize.

Living here is like being in a foreign country — no one speaks my language and the scores from home get lost in the post.

That Boston is a sports town is some small comfort to me. And their Sox reverence is something it’s hard not to be a bit humbled by. Love or hate the Sox, living in Boston I can’t escape them. Because Fenway Park falls somewhere between my job downtown and my apartment off the green line, evening games mean I can’t get a train home for the better part of an hour.

I watch train after train of excited, B-emblazoned fans roll through Copley station, biding my time, praying for a car with space enough open for a person of my stature. Never in my life have I seen so many single-letter tattoos. I would guess that about 70% of Boston natives over the age of 18 have a Sox tattoo.

In all the time I’ve lived in Boston, nearly a year now, I’ve seen exactly four Detroit Tigers hats. FOUR. One night while waiting for the train I noticed the woman next to me in the most beautiful adjustible navy blue baseball hat, with that pristine white old english D that weakens my knees. In Boston there’s an unspoken rule, fostered by the general rush and meanness of city life that you don’t ask strangers questions that aren’t game scores or directions. But. I. Just. Couldn’t. Help Myself.

I asked this woman if she was from Detroit and all I got in return was a blank stare. “Your hat,” I said.

“No,” she said, “I have some friends there, and I believe people should be able to wear whatever they want.”

“I only ask because I’m from there — I’m a huge Tigers fan.”

She turned away.

And so it goes. I am a stranger in a strange land. Won’t someone please send me the score?

But Harry didn’t have a window in his cupboard beneath the stairs, so instead I stood outside of bookstores counting down to midnight. I spent entire nights and the pre-dawn hours voraciously consuming 700+ pages of magic, defeat, and triumph. A decade later I waited outside amongst cloaked Quidditch enthusiasts of all ages, shivering in the November flurries, awaiting the midnight screening of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1. Despite my gut reaction, the division of the final movie into to parts was not cruel, but an act of mercy. A way to buy my childhood a little more time.

I was 13 when I read the first book. Marooned at a cottage with my family, I quickly blew through my arsenal of Christopher Pike’s The Last Vampire series, when I was forced to convince my sister (a year younger than me) to lend me her copy of Harry Potter. “Keep it,” she said, “I hate reading.” You guys, I am resisting the urge to write a painfully lame line about keeping it forever in my heart. But, I totally kept that book. Twelve years later it’s on my shelf in Boston. Sorcerer’s Stone has moved with me more than 10 times.

I read the entire novel in a single afternoon while eating Mackinac fudge like a true Michigander.

When I was 12 my mom gave birth to my sister Allie. I bided my time as she learned to crawl, and then speak, and finally read, dying to introduce her to the truth, the light, etc. that was The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. She took her sweet time, dragging her feet along the ABC’s. Spending nearly a year with the good Dr. Seuss and finding the wild things.

Thanks, Jo.

I was desperate for another reader in the family. Four years later I am happy to report that my plan worked flawlessly. Allie has read every Harry Potter book at least five times. When she’s home sick from school we text each other Harry Potter trivia questions. Or rather, we did do this until she informed me she had an HP trivia book that I should really consider borrowing.

She knows everything there is to know about magical beasts. She’s been reading at a college reading level since sixth grade. She’s the coolest person I know. All of these things are connected.

Recently, while watching one of the early films Allie responded to my mother’s thoughtful question about spell logistics with, “Perhaps you should read the books.” Just totally shut her down. No one should mess with a girl when she’s watching her stories.

I know Harry and J.K. Rowling hard a hard go of it at first, what with the poverty, and manuscript rejections(!), and law suits from Christian associations that feared the magic in the books promoted witchcraft among children. About as valid as the fear that Twilight is leading youngsters down the glamorous road to necrophilia.

Even if you hate Harry Potter because you think it’s too mainstream, or rips off English lore, or is just plain beneath you, you should respect it. This Englishwoman, this single mother, created a universe that made millions of people, adults and children alike excited about reading. She changed my life forever. She made me a better person. She gave me hope, and showed me good wins out. And that’s the most magical thing I can imagine.

In third grade we had to write reports on books we took out from the library. We had two options: We could write something out in the dreaded cursive or we could work with the nice folks in the library to type and illustrate a report as a book. I was one of the Midwest’s most dedicated 8-year-old pterodactyl enthusiasts. I checked out books almost exclusively set in the prehistoric era. I owned two copies of The Land Before Time. And I wrote a book all about dinosaurs and their ways called Paleontologists and Me.

I guess what I’m saying is I started the trend of graphic book reviews. You’re welcome, fellow Americans.

The Barnes & Nobel Review hosts a monthly column called “Drawn to Read,” which is what this column would have been called if it wasn’t already taken. The column is illustrated by Ward Sutton, whose work has appeared in such lauded publications as Esquire, The New Yorker, and Rolling Stone, as well as other lesser known outfits like The New York Times.

Sutton’s “Drawn to Read” provides short illustrated book reviews of both fiction and nonfiction books. The images and text capture the feel of the book the way a perfectly executed cover or book trailer might. A recent review of Disaster Preparedness: A Memoir by Heather Havrilesky is a particularly good example. It seems silly to explain in words what Sutton does graphically to a book composed solely of words, so take a look. It’s the NYT Book Review for the comic lover’s soul.

Last week I noticed another site I love, The Rumpus, is also featuring graphic book reviews. A recent review by Kevin Thomas, a self-described unemployed former film critic, covers Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones. The review appear as part of Horn! Comix Supplement, the archive of which can all be found here.

Are there other graphic book reviews I’m missing out on? How do you feel about illustrated reviews of literature? Are you a slave to the NYT‘s Sunday Book Review? Is a graphic novel of Othello the comic kid’s equivalent of cliff notes or just plain awesome? I might have to read an illustrated classic to find out.

There’s something about the skyscraper-reflected sun that makes the city a little more inviting, a little more homey. Squinting into the sun, the city seems like it isn’t all right angles and glass and stone. It’s a little bit softer. It’s trees, and water, and hissing geese too.

Speaking of a softer world, Joey Comeau and Emily Horne began their weekly web comic of the same name all the way back in 2003. The thing I love most about this comic is that it breaks a lot of comic rules. Each strip is comprised of three photographs taken by Horne often of friends and local haunts. Each panel is laced with typewritten text that’s an equal mix of funny and tragic. This comic is sardonic, and I delight in its dark humor more than I laugh at it.

Comeau, who is the author of two novels as well, also has a fun side project called Overqualified. He writes cover letters for jobs he has no real interest in obtaining. My mancrush, Ryan North describes the letters thusly, “Overqualified’s cover letters are like a slap in the face, but the slap is hilarious, and you can’t stop laughing, and as soon as it’s over you want to tell all your friends about the slap. You know the kind?”

He also does a series of interviews called “I Am Other People”. This one is my favorite, obv.

Horne’s weekly photo journal i blame the sea is also worth a look. Her pictures are frighteningly good at capturing mood.

There’s a lovely little parody of ASW on XKCD.

Pro tip: don’t forget to hover over the final panel for extra text, often the best bit.

Is this comic for you? Or do you prefer something a little more Sunday paper-ish? Let me know! Have anything mean to say in 140 characters or less? Get at me on twitter @kate_sloan

Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal. I wasn’t familiar with this comic before my poll, but now that it’s on my radar I’m noticing that a lot of people I like really like it. The comic is funny in a nerd-meets-cynic vein, but not in a gimmicky way. It’s definitely not for everyone, it’s a little science heavy. But if you’re sarcastic and tend to distrust the thinking-power of others you’ll love it. Also, the comic makes gay jokes that don’t leave me incredibly insulted,  which is always a plus.

PhD  (Piled Higher and Deeper) comics. This is another comic for the smarties, mostly commiserating/making fun of the glamorous life in the research trenches experienced by grad students. Hours in the library and lab, instant coffee, fine ramen cuisine  any time your little black heart desires. I like this comic because it makes me really happy that I’m not in a dark enough place to go to grad school. Also, it uses a lot of words and I get most of the jokes.

The final smart comic of the week is none other than Kate Beaton’s Hark! A Vagrant. I like to think of this as the ultimate smart girl comic. You might recall Rosemary Van Deuren’s excellent piece: Kate Beaton is Smarter than All of Us. It’s still true. This comic is funny in a hot-librarian-making-Shakespeare-puns kind of way. Luckily, that is one of two languages in which I am fluent. Lit jokes aside, Hark! A Vagrant is best known for its historical comics. These often focus on a historical figure or event and are effin’ hilarious. Except this one, this one is grisly as fck.

Any guesses on this week’s winner? Really, not one guess? This week’s nonexistent prize goes to Hark! A Vagrant, for making me feel secure in my love of Poe jokes.

Do you have a favorite in the Round Up so far? Or another comic to recommend? Send me your comments on twitter: @kate_sloan.

There’s even a strip that uses a poem by the poet-in-residence at my alma mater: Diane
Wakoski.

The foundation seems to have removed the complete strips from the site, but Google Images pulls up some interesting results.