Listening to: “Driving” – Everything But the Girl

So I’ve pretty much been wet for five days straight. And not in the fun way. What with reviewing mounds of outdoor theater here in Boston (As You Like It in the Common gets interrupted by torrential downpour smack in the middle of “All the world’s a stage…”) and camping and mountain climbing in the Mahoosucs, I suppose it’s not surprising. But seriously, New England–give me a fucking break, will you?

Sooner or later I’ll end up like the forest-bound French regiment in Calvino’s The Baron in the Trees, covered in moss and moisture and looking more plant than human. Or like Moist in Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog: “Is there anything you need dampened… or made soggy?”

Anyway, it’s nice to be sitting in my dry apartment, even if all the lightbulbs have been mysteriously dying, and the water pressure in the bathroom seems to ebb with the rains.

Mt. Success, take two was indeed a success, if a dubious one; it was so rainy and foggy up there, we could barely tell we were on a mountaintop. But the plane crash near the summit (from 1954!) was fucking awesome. Here’s a shot taken partway up the trail, taken with my camera that’s now half-ruined from all the wet:

Just started reading Midnight’s Children by Rushdie. So far, reads like an Indian version of 100 Years of Solitude–which is by no means a bad thing. Every nation needs its magical realist epic novelist-laureate, I suppose.

In other news, I am bored with growing out my hair and am resisting the strong urge to chop it all off again. And I would love if dear little fuzzy life would slow down for a sec so I could maybe take a breath. But breathing is a luxury of the aristocracy.

Listening to: “Sympathy for the Devil” – The Stones

I’m currently sitting at my desk wrapped in a company fleece, biting the salt granules off a stick pretzel. My nose itches. It’s half-heartedly raining outside, and I’m vaguely worried I’ll get trench foot if I wear my Wellingtons all afternoon. It’s one of those days. Those days when a person could get trench foot sitting in an office.

I haven’t been able to muster much patience for my fellow human beings lately, apart from a select few. Hanging around with my dog or fucking off to a mountaintop seem like the best options right now.

Have ya heard the nation might actually be starting to acknowledge its folly?  According to the Times, 81% of polled Americans think the nation is heading down a bad road. No shit, America. Go your brains.

I’m thinking of writing a story about a woman who decides everything that humans could dream up that’s worthwhile already has been dreamed up, so she decides to systematically destroy all cultural artifacts so we can start again from scratch. And then people still remember that the things had once existed, so she decides she has to kill almost everyone and start the human race from scratch. I can’t decide whether she’ll succeed or not at the end.

I think if one person does end up being World-Destroyer, it should be Mick Jagger. But not Mick Jagger now. Late ’60s, “Sympathy for the Devil”-era Mick Jagger. Maybe him and “Space Oddity”-era Bowie could do it in tandem. That would be hot.