Well, we were finally deemed worthy to live in the last house we looked at, so that's the one we'll be renting.
I guess I should start packing, but I've been sad, achy, and tired all weekend. Besides, I'd like to put off the general disarray of moving as long as possible. When I look around, I don't really have that much stuff anyway. Collector Boy, on the other hand, is completely fucked.
Enough whining. Jeez. Look at the new handlebar grips I got today. Very cheerful, no? And bold.
Cheerful and bold, that's me.
Oh, if you are like me in that not only are you cheerful and bold but you also like Joan Didion a lot but have always had some problems with her writing that you couldn't really articulate because: 1) you're intellectually lazy; and 2) you weren't even alive at the time she was writing about most of these issues so what the hell do you know as compared to the likes of, say, Joan Didion, you might like to read this Barbara Grizzuti Harrison (never heard of her before) essay from 1979.
Some of it struck me as just picking nits to bolster a larger argument, but some of it is dead on. Some of it is just really funny. If you've been looking for a 27-year-old, 8,000 word essay critical of Joan Didion's style and politics (and, gosh, who hasn't?), this is totally for you.
If that doesn't sound too good, my friend Margaret was able to sum it up much more succinctly, saying something to the effect that she likes Joan Didion but she sometimes wishes her female characters would just snap out of it and stop obsessively driving the fucking freeway or whatever already.
Ok, that takes care of Joan Didion, once and for all. Now I have to go watch this week's rerun of The Wire, which is one thing I still can't find much wrong with.