This week was long and eventful. Tuesday I tuned out/turned off and didn't do anything except work on a novel manuscript. I stayed up all night and took an hour-long nap on Wednesday morning. Wednesday night I had dinner with a small group of friends cobbled together from like four different social groups, which was odd but weirdly invigorating. I saw a guy who looked like a resting lion, and then I realized he was Ridley Scott. Thursday I went swimming and worked during the day and tried to figure out how much I'll lose by cashing out of my 401K from my old job before it matures--when I'm 55. In the evening I went to an event for the Imperial Bedrooms release. They had free copies of the book; it has a great opening sentence and a great closing sentence.
Oh--I also saw The Human Centipede.
Today I spent most of the day hanging out at my friend's house and watching True Blood's first season. While I enjoy it, part of me is enjoying it as a sociological artifact (and education). Because it is clear that this is a show whose pleasures in their most intense form are not available to heterosexual men. That level of appreciation is reserved for gay men and for women of any sexual orientation. That is, True Blood is most resonant to those people whose desires are not the desires most actively encouraged by American culture.
Anyway, in the seven episodes I saw, I think this was my favorite scene:
My friend has a cat named Monkey whose face looks quite like a monkey's face, with a smashed-in little black nose and huge intelligent eyes. It was wandering around the whole time. I like cats that don't care if you pick them up and mush them around like play-doh, so I got along all right with this one.