In: From life
In real life, I only have one friend who’s truly literary–which is to say, she doesn’t read the kinds of books you’d normally see on the New York Times bestseller list or as an Oprah recommendation.
She has good taste. She’s read and enjoyed Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment (and in that respect, Nicole, I am not worthy). She knows who said, "Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That’ll teach you to keep your mouth shut." In short, she and I have scarily similar taste in books.
She was also the one who, several months ago, casually mentioned she was reading Chuck Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. I casually picked up the book yesterday–and promptly read one hundred fifty pages of it over the course of the day and night. Klosterman’s discourses on popular culture–ranging from Pamela Anderson to Saved by the Bell to the artistic brilliance of Billy Joel–are equal parts exasperating, funny, angry, and witty. He’s also a damned good writer. I recommend. So does Nicole, I’m sure.
I planned on flying to Washington, D.C. and Philadelphia over the course of my vacation. Then I realized that travelling over the Memorial Day weekend was going to be nearly impossible: many of my airline’s flights were booked, overbooked, delayed, cancelled, and–well, you get the idea.
I may still try to fly somewhere later this week. But living in Florida is a vacation in itself; beautiful Tampa Bay is only a short drive away, and I’m within shouting distance of Busch Gardens. I also kicked around the idea of driving to Orlando (Disney World! Sea World! Universal Studios!), but with gas tipping the scales at almost four bucks a gallon, that’d be the height of insanity. (Note to Energy Secretary Samuel W. Bodman: now might be a good time to tap those oil reserves.) In any case, I’ve stocked up on beer, pizza, ice cream, and Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union. That doesn’t give me anything to complain about.