Okay, my blogging buddies, I’m just not understanding something here. What part of “you were all put on this planet to entertain me” do you not understand? Some of you actually go more than a day or two in between blogposts. This must stop. I will grant you time to go to your jobs, attend to your families and/or relationships, perhaps a minor hobby or two, maybe a LITTLE sleep, but after those things are done, your job, nay, your destiny, is to write funny and/or wildly interesting blogposts for my enjoyment.
Is this really too much to ask of you? I mean, I could start a cult, like David Koresh, the “wacko from Waco” (without the guns or the kid-fucking, duh), where every adult woman in my cult would have to come to my bed when I deemed it to be her night, and all your incomes would be mine. But it sounds like too much work and the FBI really frowns upon cults (not to mention that I couldn’t preach that fantasy shit that is the Bible while keeping a straight face). So your writing must serve as my happy ending for each night. Well, that and whatever book I’m falling asleep with. Right now I’m finishing up a book by some guy who raises buffalo at the other end of my state, South Dakota. Actually pretty interesting.
My “reading room” reading lately has been, of all things, “Les Miserables.” I’m about 500 pages into the 1200 paperback pages of it. When Fantine was dying, I had to Google “Does Fantine ever see Cosette again?” and “Does ‘Les Miserables’ have a happy ending?” For the simple reason that, since I had just finished reading “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” by the same dude, and it had a relentlessly unhappy ending, there was no fucking way I was going to spend 1200 pages on something that had a totally shitty ending, no matter how interesting it was in the meantime. I’m happy to say that I cheated and there’s some good news at the end, so I’ll keep going. I skipped about 20 pages of description of how convents worked (2 pages would have been plenty) and may skip a bit more here or there (even the translator put some stuff in appendices where ol’ Vic got too windy), but, by and large it’s enjoyable. Like any “classic” novel, it seems, it has little universal truths here and there, such as this completely true little gem:
‘Woman!’ exclaimed Tholomyes. ‘Beware of woman! Woe to him who trusts himself to her inconstant heart. Woman is perfidious and devious. She hates the serpent as a professional rival. The serpent is in the house across the way.’
Of course, to be fair, Tho-lo was the asshole who knocked up Fantine and then ditched her to a life of squalor.
Some say that bathroom reading is wrong, don’t they? And it will take most of the winter to finish “Les Mis” at this rate. But the doctors are wrong about the whole deal, of course. Yes, you should put the book down, remember what page you stopped at, or put a bookmark in (pages, like friends, should NEVER be bent over), as soon as your body has done its business, but before that, reading distracts one from “performance anxiety” and lets things just happen, doesn’t it? Which is important for old farts like me.
Back to the original subject–yes, I’m a hypocrite because I rarely write, but that doesn’t mean you should be excused. Entertain me; I am nothing if not a blank slate. Of course, any of you who write a lot, or who have declared publicly that you are going on hiatus, or who would be in any way offended by my (dull-as-a-butter-knife) stab at humor, you are obviously excused. But the rest of you……
Speaking of bent pages, I actually had a library book once (I think it was “Neverwhere”) where the bottom corners of pages had been bent over. Who the fuck does that? Then they had been very nicely smoothed out, almost as if someone had taken an iron and smoothed out the creases as best they could. A little “I apologize” afterthought. As odd as that book and only a tad less believable. I once saw a co-worker bend a page over in the book they were reading in the lunchroom; I looked at them as if they had slapped a child. Their book, I guess; if they want to molest it that’s their business, I suppose. Still appalling to actually see it done in person. Like watching terribly ugly people grope each other in a bar. Or pretty people, for that matter. Get a room. Bend your pages and your significant other over at home, please.
By the way, “Hunchback” wasn’t all bad–wasn’t it great what an evil asshole the Archdeacon guy was? I wonder what people would have said if Victor Hugo had gone up on a stage somewhere and ripped up a painting of the Pope in protest of the evils of some members of that Church in his day?
Winter’s coming. “Winter! No warmth, no light, no midday, morning merging into evening, fog, twilight, and nothing to be clearly seen through the misted window. The sky had become a grating, the day a cellar, the sun a poor man at the door. The terrible winter season, which turns the rain from Heaven and the hearts of men to stone! Fantine’s creditors were harassing her.” Preach it, Victor.
I’ll write once in awhile if you will.