A year ago I was in Germany, alone and growing a beard—the only beard I’d ever had or since—for questionable and seemingly unironic reasons. I felt some prejudice, especially at the doors of clubs, of which I saw several facades but never an interior. I experienced some new forms of illness, peed on myself in a cab and bought an €11 plane ticket to Norway. I felt lost and rarely thought of death, and now my life has leveled out a bit. I live with my girlfriend and signed my first official lease on part of the second floor of a two-story house. I cook and drink American beers, plan my weeks around the presidential debates. Compulsive paranoia regarding the suspect preparation of cappuccinos has been replaced with making sure my clothes are off the couch and bills are paid. New fixations, too, have arisen: to map the narratives of my amaranthine nightmares, to parse the patterns of diffuse images of terror and decay that drift throughout my consciousness, to grapple with religion, God, the transmutation of the body and the limits of the human mind, the actual capacity of the thing and the shape of its components. Lately a vague sensation of erosion has begun to worm its way into my cognizant perception—a knowledge of mental illness, colors swaying into a kind of one color, that which contains every color and/or imageable, magmatic structure.
Slate’s got President Obama’s summer reading list, along with analysis of same-
• The Way Home by George Pelecanos, a crime thriller based in Washington, D.C.;
• Lush Life by Richard Price, a story of race and class set in New York’s Lower East Side;
• Tom Friedman’s Hot, Flat, and Crowded, on the benefits to America of an environmental revolution;
• John Adams by David McCullough;
• Plainsong by Kent Haruf, a drama about the life of eight different characters living in a Colorado prairie community.
I apologize for the late post. Friday is indeed over. I have a good excuse though. Let me explain.
I went deep undercover into the scorpion’s nest. My phone camera was crotch concealed and undetected. My life was in jeopardy and the final question was “What is you’re fucked?”.
Seriously, I am flayed skin if these guys find out I am secretely posting drunken pictures on HTML Giant to increase female/homosexual readership.
November 29th, 2008 / 4:40 pm
I wish I had seen this a little sooner. If you go to the Small Beer Press website and place an order, they will donate 20% of the proceeds to Barack Obama’s presidential campaign.
Possibly, this is moot. Obama is way up and has lots of money. And the election is next week. And. And. And.
But you might as well do it because the books are all also on sale. For $264 you can have hardcover copies of everything they have published.
For $78, you can have everything they published in 2008.
Even if you are apolitical, you should consider buying stuff. Small Beer Press rules. Recommendations after the jump.