i am going to stop pretending that i’ll get around to writing one-sentence takedowns of everything i read and just try to keep the great conversation going here.
Michel Houellebecq: you *knew* france was going to re-re-figure shit out and drop this guy on you. i am only slightly engaged with Platform thus far but clearly this guy has me and most of my fellow travelers dialed. like he has my tax information on file because he owns me. in the spirit of comparing 16yr old athletes to people 20 years down the road: saul bellow but with a more reliable low-post repertory.
Large-print edition of Jayber Crow that once belonged to the Tacoma Public Library: frere hagen, this for you. (a chaise lounge!). anyway, i will report back on this shit to you all assembled gallants.
I definitely sent myself off to sleep last night by rapturously thumbing through my recently acquired book of candid snapshots of F Scott Fitzgerald and family. that’s not weird. what is weird is that i keep having dreams that are set in the 72nd street 1/9 stop. the one that seems monumental but isn’t. maybe it’s 78th street. i can’t (#@!(&ing be bothred with this snot.
Nomar Garciaparra: You hit .370 once. you are now hee seop choi.
also notionally and/or financially assented to:
:: Dance to the Music of Time, 1st trilogy (you knew this would happen)
:: eating lunch at subway
:: being alone in dingy apartment above the pot & pan company for the entire week. i looked into finding a tuberculosis sanitarium that had a weekly rate but as they say, no dice.
:: using typewriters at work
:: having to go to the bathroom less
:: these gray corduroy jeans. if anyone was wondering, i have been spending time looking at my own ass in the bathroom mirror at work. i can always fob it off as “seeing if i have a stain on my clothes” or “tucking my shirt in” if a guy interrupts my ongoing pageant of the self. that pretty much covers my entire existence, as it turns out, quickly pretending to be doing something else when someone interrupts me from admiring myself.