I like to consider myself fairly well-educated but the fact of the matter is, I stink when it comes to Emily Dickinson. I've read just about nothing by her. Fortunately, before I actually had to read her poetry with my precious own free time, along came Paul Legault's The Emily Dickinson Reader, published by McSweeney's. LeGault has bravely set out to interpret or transpose each of Dickinson's poems into one-line renderings. Legault introduces the Reader thusly:
Born on December 10, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts, Emily Dickinson is both the father of American poetry and the most infamous lesbian vampire of the nineteenth century.
She wrote 1,789 poems in her lifetime, the bulk of which remained unpublished until her (supposed) death in 1886, when her younger sister Lavinia found them in a trunk. After escaping their Pandoran chamber, Dickinson’s works emerged into the twentieth century like an apocalyptic army of angels made entirely of paper.
Emily Dickinson wrote in a language all her own, thus the need for this English version of what she meant.
Once you’ve read any one issue of any one women’s magazine, you’ve basically read them all. They are just trying to sell you stuff, usually by making you feel bad about yourself. You are really not expected to look like anyone in them.
I mean this! Being a child of the ‘80s, nothing was cooler to me than dancing to my dad’s cassette tape of Sports and obviously you are a large reason why the movie Back To The Future is so awesome. The best daddy-daughter wedding dance I ever witnessed was when my friend Courtney and her dad boogied, at her reception, to a video of them dancing to “The Heart of Rock n’ Roll” when she was about four years old. It’s a fact that the Ghostbusters theme wouldn’t be as great without you. I loved 
I don’t hate the Olympics, but I don’t love them, either. There are certain Olympians I like a lot (Apolo Anton Ohno) and others who I secretly rooted against because they seemed rather crappy based on arbitrary rules of crappiness I’ve set up in my head (Sasha Cohen, Michael Phelps — but not because of the pot thing, just because he sorta seems like a jerk). But just about all exciting Olympic memories have been tempered by the remembrance of hours and hours of footage of waiting for something to happen.