Uh oh, spaghettio

Maureen Dowd has written a column blasting chick-lit. Way to be on the cutting edge, Mo!!

On another note, they are predicting our first winter storm of the year here in Joisey, for Tuesday night into Wednesday. Snow-starved schoolchildren will be happy if they get a day off.

On a third note, young writer Robyn Schneider has posted her own New York-living entry on her blog. It comes a few weeks after the aforementioned entry by Jessica. Robyn reports that she is leaving, although she doesn't know for how long. Well, if you can make it here, you'll make it anywhere, and she made it.

Coming tomorrow: Competitiveness among high school honors kids reaches its limit.

Update: So that you don't have to look for it, here's the beginning of Maureen's column:

I was cruising through Borders, looking for a copy of “Nostromo.”
Suddenly I was swimming in pink. I turned frantically from display table to display table, but I couldn’t find a novel without a pink cover. I was accosted by a sisterhood of cartoon women, sexy string beans in minis and stilettos, fashionably dashing about book covers with the requisite urban props — lattes, books, purses, shopping bags, guns and, most critically, a diamond ring.
Was it a Valentine’s Day special?
No, I realized with growing alarm, chick lit was no longer a niche. It had staged a coup of the literature shelves. Hot babes had shimmied into the grizzled old boys’ club, the land of Conrad, Faulkner and Maugham. The store was possessed with the devil spawn of “The Devil Wears Prada.” The blood-red high heel ending in a devil’s pitchfork on the cover of the Lauren Weisberger best seller might as well be driving a stake through the heart of the classics.
I even found Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” with chick-lit pretty-in-pink lettering.
“Penis lit versus Venus lit,” said my friend Leon Wieseltier, the literary editor of The New Republic, who was with me. “An unacceptable choice.”