Tom Gibson has broken the world record for continuously watching television. Gibson stayed up for two days, only stopping to go for 15-minute bathroom breaks every eight hours. He existed on a diet of sausage rolls, ham and cheese sandwiches, and sugary drinks.

It would be criminal for me to neglect mentioning that Carrie A.A. Frye is guest-blogging at Maud’s this week. Of course, the fact that she mentioned this place several times yesterday has nothing to do with the current plug. Whether she’ll regale us with an additional reference to her tangerine muumuu or ditties involving ancillary chromatic raiment (outside of hot pants and the red-sequined top) remains to be seen. For the nonce, Ms. Frye plans to instigate discussions on Ann Patchett’s recent memoir, shortly after addressing thirty or so people (some of them named Ted). To all the boys out there waiting for the scoop, pop in those Tic-Tacs and prepare to serenade the gal with some Villa-Lobos.

Bob Baker of the L.A. Times has accused America of a major crime: alliteration. Baker also reports that he lost all abilities to feel the joy of language sometime in the late 1990s.

Sarah has alerted me to this Observer piece, whereby the Bizarro world of Caitlin Flanagan is laid out again for those who haven’t kept track. In Rachel Donadio’s article, a certain cocktail recipe was referred to. I wish to assure all readers that the recipe was designed exclusively for determined drinkers looking for a little something off the beaten track. The Pentagon was not involved in the concoction of the recipe. In fact, national reports indicate that the Caitlin Flanagan is now being served in more than a few disreputable establishments and that it has not been a success. If anything, it has furthered sales of Pepto-Bismol. As such, like any horrible beverage idea, the drinker should devote no more than a few minutes, and preferably no time at all, to its namesake.

On a somewhat related note, one should never drink alone in one’s house. Particularly after writing a piece for the New Yorker. Recommendation: perhaps listening and boogeying to some George Thorogood instead.

Of course, a few theories have been tossed around about Ms. Flanagan — specifically, strange nouns. Is she a wit? Perhaps, but only if you find trivializing the service sector tantamount to a well-delivered bon mot from Oscar Wilde. Is she a wag? It depends really on who’s the dog, and it would seem that nannies are. Of course, they are too busy wagging their butts trying to contend with a privleged mother’s child. Is she a delight? Probably not, given that she’s provoked so many calm, amicable and affectionate souls to anger. Is she an utterly maddening interlocutor? Well, she’s utterly maddening. But interlocutors can be found in the pages of bad translations of Russian literature, not around the hallowed grounds of Central Park West. Although her strange questions to Ms. Donadio (“How old are you? What do you think I mean?”) lend credence to a paranoid type. We leave better minds to draw more astute conclusions.

Regular Reluctant visitors may remember my query a few weeks ago about the possible existence of a gene causing the Hemingway family to spontaneously take their clothes off. Fortunately, the able team at The Literary Dick has attempted an answer to my question. One doctor declared the question a weird one. While the Genome Project hasn’t yet been consulted, the Literary Dick speculates that until such a gene can be demonstrated, it cannot possibly exist. There are additional possibilities over whether this might be a nature vs. nurture argument. But I leave the able scholars of nudism to unravel potential genetic dispositions.