Rather pleasant here aside from the champagne bottle that shattered on my handlebars and nearly sent a projectile into my crotch on my way to Jesi's pool party before she leaves for Kentucky. I was wearing my bathers at the time. Now I am wearing boxer shorts that have been in my possession since the Clinton administration. Heck, Pavement hadn't even disbanded by then. Full disclosure: the waistband has started to unravel.
I bought three expensive pens the other day: the total came to $5.79. It will be interesting if I return with the one I'm taking to Lake Havasu with Mitch (who I am expecting shortly). I haven't written anything for days. The thoughts that came into my head were of such shallow insignificance that it had me wondering if I had taken anything from this world since 1972 — exactly one week after Mia Schoen's inspirational birth — other than a presence that is hard-to-ignore due to my much-ballyhooed moxie.
So I reread the greatest novel of all time, The Bushwhacked Piano, in an attempt to generate some interesting prose. My inability to emulate his style is hardly testament to its genius. I suppose the thing that I take away from it more than any other is Mcguane's steadfast refusal to communicate anything in a conventional fashion. It reads fresh, alien even, every time.
Been applying for jobs around town, figuring that a good place to decompress after grad school would be behind a desk at a hotel foyer from 11pm-7am. Nathanael West did this in the 1930s and got at least two masterful novellas out of it. However, it's hard winning over the hoteliers considering I have no experience, but my winning personality may ultimately win them in the end. Besides, I've got a novella to finish.