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bringing boring back

Photo 336.jpg
I had to run up to campus because today was the expiration day of all of the wonderful little socialist benefits of being a student. My goal was to fend this off with a few checks, but it turns out that intervention from a higher (administrative) power is required. So before collecting my things from the IMA, I visited the pool to filled my ears with water as a little souvenir.

I still need to decide whether I should buy into a real person gym. There's a shiny one near my office, but I've heard that it's expensive and kind of questionable.

I was thinking about going to this party that I was evited to tonight. Then I took a closer look at the evitation and realized that maybe they're serious about "cocktail party" attire and maybe there are some short stories in old issues of the New Yorker by Miranda July and David Foster Wallace that I've really been meaning to read. Not to mention finishing that goddamn Dave Eggers novel.


Riding the bus home, I noticed a man without any apparent tree surgery tools trying to repair a broken sapling on the sidewalk.


Lemme know what you think of the DFW story. I won't write anything here about my reaction to it except to say that I'm eager to see your interpretation.
Two weeks (/two months) later, I finally read that DFW story.

I liked it. Of course, I'm generally a fan of his habit of stretching a minute's worth of internal monologue into three dense pages that chronicle the circling, gradual progress that turns pretty major in a matter of sentences. Looking around on the internet, it's interesting that there are quite a few people who write about being pleased to find a pro-life story in the New Yorker while others complain about his ironic unsympathetic take on the simple-minded religious midwesterners.

I don't really think that I agree with either of those opinions, which, I recognize could just be condescension on my part. I've developed a possibly unfortunate habit of assuming sincerity.