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i finished things fall apart this weekend after miraculously getting through a commie pinko third world lit major in school without ever having it on a reading list. perhaps because of that, i feel guilty that i didn't like it. i've read a decent number of african authors and like the non-linear storytelling style that they sometimes exude, but with this one i felt like i read a book and missed some chapters—interesting stories within stories never got finished, characters reached some point of change or threat and then disappeared from the book altogether. i'm not hatin', i'm just saying i wanted more. have anything to say about the book, mr. achebe, or otherwise?
just to keep on my toes, i'm gonna give ulysses a shot. two reasons: my high school english teacher said that it was the one book he couldn't get through, and it's #1 on the modern library 100 best novels of the 20th century (fall was on st. mark's bookshop's additional one hundred). also, because one of the fencers on avenue a was selling a vintage hardback edition for $5.
i'm dying to see blue crush. what's up with that? but i really have wanted to learn to surf for a while now—if i'm gonna admit that moms' side of the family is from hawaii, i oughta at least try to keep it real.
one of the pleasures of the east village is discovering a restaurant that's been sitting across the backyard from your place after all this time, eating an amazing (if pricey) dinner there and being able to see into your third-floor window and wonder what the other patrons have seen over the years.
the n.e.r.d. (i'd bootlegged their mp3s but finally got the album, and the tracks are all different and there's all these little hidden beats or backup vocals or samples going on in them), jack johnson (one of the most beautiful album covers, kinda reminds me of matthew sweet's girlfriend cover), and soon-to-be-released coldplay (any brit band where the new york times refers to their use of ostinatos is a winner in my book) albums all freaking blow me away. hearing them when i get ready for work in the morning and then again when i settle into my tune-out-all-marketing-chicks-and-write-and-design-and-code interior narrative almost make the workweek alright. and for a month/summer/year like this, that's saying a lot.
posted August 14, 2002 in crap, delivery, film, music, print, sex. 20012000