Monday, November 15, 2010


holy moley. Also, that's in freakin' Paris. I'm pretty sure I want this more than anything, ever.

Still looking for my Annie Clark, I suppose. That's kind of an important component.

one reason I probably haven't found her yet is the fact that I spent time and effort looking up the etymology of the phrase "holy moley" to make sure it was spelled write. It can also be spelled "moly." Good use of time.

Friday, November 12, 2010

D.F. Wallace is the shit

"The next real literary “rebels” in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in US life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. The anti-rebels would be outdated of course, before they even started. Dead of the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naive, anachonistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations, of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the “Oh, how banal.”

stop reading my diary, David Foster Wallace