Monday, February 01, 2010


I can't sleep.  Feel like something's wrong with me.  Oh wait something is wrong with me, namely my nose won't stop running and my head is terribly clogged with wet cotton.  Spent all day packing stuff, moving stuff... (I'm not moving, I'm still a New York resident, I'm just taking a long vacation, except it's not really a vacation because it's work, all work and no play; fortunately I love work).


Really awake!  On that physical cruise control, that eyelid thing where they lock at half-mast.
Because I can't sleep I just wrote a bunch of emails and email replies.  I've been corresponding with another writer who I admire very much and who, for reasons of personality and also various external circumstances, makes an excellent correspondent.  I just wrote a bunch to him.  My emails included the below paragraphs (with minor errors now fixed).


"Let it never be said that you haven't had an interesting life.  While I was in the ocean in the DR I was thinking about this; given the exceedingly limited time in which I will be able to experience consciousness on this earth, and given the incredible good fortune I've had to be born in a wealthy nation where I don't have to work in a mine or sweatshop, shouldn't my primary goal be to live an interesting life?  To experience as many diverse and interesting experiences as I possibly can during the time I'm here?  Since then I've been doing thought experiments in my head, would I rather have X's life or Y's?  You know who I realized has an interesting life?  Jesse Ventura.  He was a Navy SEAL, a bodyguard for the Rolling Stones, a professional actor (in Predator, remember?), a professional wrestler, Governor of the state of Minnesota, and now he chills and surfs and whatever.  I'd much rather have his life than Brad Pitt's, I decided."


"That's a good story about your friend. I could never have sex with a prostitute. Unless I was so obscenely rich I didn't know what to do with myself or something. I've been to four strip clubs in my life--the Penthouse club in Manhattan, a club in Youngstown, Ohio (while visiting Noah Cicero) where lapdances cost $5, one in Nicaragua, and one in post-Katrina New Orleans.  Manhattan sucked; the others were fun but not in a turn-on way."

Actually on second thought I don't know why I wrote that; the one in Nicaragua was terrible, too.  I don't know why we went; we were just walking past and it seemed like tempting fate, somehow, to go in.  It was creepy inside, but kind of sleek and fake-classy, much more like the Penthouse club in Manhattan than the Youngstown or New Orleans ones.  They gave us some drinks that they charged a lot for, and as soon as I took a sip I knew something was wrong.  I whispered to my friend, the guy on the trip with me (who is gay), that I was pretty sure the drinks were drugged.  We left.

"[ASB] had to go to her friend's house to get photos taken.  The friend needed to do portraits for a photography class and [ASB] had agreed to be the subject.  Later she emailed and said they went on the friend's roof and took pictures, which turned out lovely (the friend put them on flickr here:, but in between posing for those very lovely/untroubled pictures, [ASB] started violently projectile vomiting.  She had gotten a stomach virus or something.  I like that story."

It really adds something to the pictures, I think.


That happened this afternoon.  I'm sleeping (or not sleeping, rather) on a futon in the living room, desperate to avoid catching whatever bug it is.  I do not need this to fuck with my travel plans. 


Watched a lot of Mad Men episodes last night.  John Slattery is amazing.  I like the scene in the first season where he rides the girl around the office.  And later when Don slaps him.  What a brilliant show.  Better than The Wire, certainly.  Better than The Sopranos.  Better than The Shield?  Only if it can top The Shield's ending.


My eyes just won't close.  [UPDATE: I just slept for like ten hours.]

1 comment:

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