Syllabus #128

It's Halloweeeeeeeeen and I honestly don't know how.  Wasn't it just summer a few days ago?  We are those awful people who turn out our porch light and hide from trick or treaters, mostly because Charlie would stroke out before night falls if the doorbell kept ringing.  And I do not need a lawsuit because my dog ate some random pint-sized Marvel character holding a pillowcase full of fun size candy.  

Lola, on the other hand, was born for this day:

What's your Halloween costume? 

Note to self, get a boulevardier next time instead of a negroni next time I order a cocktail somewhere.

I first heard the parable of the drowning man as a joke our Spanish teacher told us in Ecuador, only the drowning man was an arrogant priest.  It was hilarious.  All the more so because it was thrilling to listen to an entire long-form joke told in another language and understand the literal words AND the humor.  Could I retell it to you in Spanish now?  No.  Absolutely not.  But still.

Use social media to be...less social...or more strategically social?  Or you could just be naturally introverted and socially awkward and have relatively few online connections anyway. 

This makes me want to stick my head in a blender.  If that's the future, count me out.

I'm from New Jersey and I brag about it....See, people, sometimes high taxes, when properly managed, actually render useful social programs and services, what a concept.

Omg the second letter about the roommate who put up photos of serial killers.  I didn't do that exact thing, but that kind of weird behavior is 100% in my wheelhouse, and in fact, I think some infamous murderers and child molesters "signed" the cover of my 6th grade yearbook, so, you know.  Shoulda raised some red flags, but it was the 90s.  We were all fine.

I love the Mountain Goats' I Hope You Die, and find it terribly amusing that the inspiration for it was how much John Darnielle hated the Leanne Womack song, I Hope You Dance, because I, too, despise that syrupy sonic assault.

Analog Reading:

Finished Intimacies by Katie Kitamura.  It felt like...nothing happened?  Reading it just made me feel depressed because the main character was so isolated and unmoored.  

Still nibbling away at A Carnival of Snackery, like each diary entry is a food pellet and I'm but a caged rat in B. F. Skinner's lab.

Just started Graceland, At Last by Margaret Renkl, a collection of her New York Times essays about nature, culture, and politics in Nashville specifically and around the South more broadly.  I like her.