O Brother. I'm tired. I just spent the entirety of a night writing an essay for a poetry magazine and it turned out to be 2700 words. I might try and slim it down tomorrow. I can't believe people in academia still whine about having to write a 5000 words essay every four weeks or so, what do you do with all your free time, construct cathedrals?
So this may be the chronicle of the 'aborted ideas for blog-posts' in the head of Andrea Tallarita, where there's enough space for a couple of dancing soirees anyways. Firstly, I intended to write a nice post about Blood Meridian. That's a novel about some guy you might have heard of, you know, William Shakespeare? Hello?? No wait it's Cormac Mc Carthy actually - what the fuck have I been reading all the time? Did that lady at the bookshop screw me up, like when I asked her for an edition of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason without the philosophical bits?
It would have made for a nice good book review or something, and though this may have twisted the panties of all those who saw their nuts falling onto the floor-tiles with tedium after I ejaculated my mumblings about Ulysses (incidentally that didn't feel like ejaculating at all, I've had better orgasms when my adolescential wet-dreams still failed to distinguish between hot and tumescent and they got me in bed with my math teacher, who was a fat reef of such proportions that when she sat in the sea, mussels started building homes on her ass), though it may have caused pain, I was saying, it would nonetheless have been a safe bet.
Unfortunately this possibility was taken away from me. For one thing, the novel is the most violent thing I've ever read in my life and it made as morose and depressed as Sid Vicious. You're basically following this kid who runs from his house and within the first chapter he's jamming a broken bottle into the eye of a guy whose ears have been ripped off. You'd think that would be the climax, but it's only the climax to the extent that being found out downloading porn on the week before your grandparents catch you humping your stuffed dolphin while wearing a scuba mask and fins can be called a climax. I mean, you'd think this is a joke or something, but the book goes so far as to have a slaughtering of puppies! Goddammit, what the fuck did McCarthy's parents show him before bedtime, videos of Abu Ghraib?? But it must also be said that the novel is gorgeously, gorgeously beautiful, not to mention intelligently clever, remarkably notable and unbelievably incredibly, and a really sophisticated historical novel. Arguably one of the best American novels of the 20th Century, and I didn't feel like I could do it justice in a quick blog post. (Of course I could write another epic as I did for Joyce.... the fuck I will! I'd rather cock-fence with the snout of a sawfish than do that again!).
So onto more banal subject matters, I went to the cinema today to see Robin Hood. Not bad, but this is the last time I'm buying popcorn and pepsi at the movies. Seriously, for what fucking reason do they serve the Pepsi in double-pint size glasses?? What do they assume I am, an elephant? I wasn't halfway through the glass when my bladder started sending acute alarm bells and I had to jog out of there for the toilet. This wouldn't have been a problem per se, but in a cinema which could have accommodated 250 people no sweat, we had all for some reason decided to sit on exactly the same line. As a consequence, in a surreal atmosphere like something out of the vacuum scenes of 2001: A Space Odyssey, I stepped over the knees of eight different swearing couples to walk outside. And then, back. At which stage my father had to go of course, because he doesn't exactly have a bladder as a dragon-heart, and I sat there waiting in the vague fear that he may get lost and I'd have to go and look for him.
I could have written a proper blog entry at least on Robin Hood, but this was made impossible by my level of fatigue. I'm so tired, dude. I think it shows by the style. Then again, everything about me shows by the style.
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