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Archive for June, 2008

I used to be a much more voracious reader when I was younger than I am today, mostly because I have a laptop that can provide me with ample entertainment (or, you know, work) to do on my daily commute.  So this year my reading list has been rather pathetic for the moment, but I’m hoping that some traveling in the next few months will afford me the opportunity to read uninterrupted for a few hours at a time here and there.

Part of this resistance to read is the fact that I tend to take on more difficult material.  Case in point:  The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie.  I love me some magical realism, but it’s honestly difficult to only give a book like this forty minutes of your attention at a time–it really requires a few good hours of being immersed in it, but it’s difficult to not feel guilty that you’re not doing something more active instead of sitting around on a sunny Saturday afternoon, such as playing tennis or completing wedding planning shit.  So I’ve shelved that book for the moment, with the intention of returning to it post-wedding.

Since then, I’ve been reading Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller, which is a semi-autobiographical recounting of the author bumming around Paris, getting drunk and fucking whores while getting some meager writing jobs here and there in the 1930’s.  The infamous c-word appears at least ten times in the first ten pages, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, of the novel’s vulgarity.

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April 2, 2008, 5:49 PM, East Norwalk, CT.

 

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So I spent Saturday afternoon in a darkened movie theater downtown after a spirited lunch with the boy, his lab-mate and his visiting friend watching Sex and the City.  While not as horrible as I had expected–there were some genuinely funny moments that reminded me of why I loved the show in the first place–there were many, many things wrong with the film on the whole that I must vent about.  Be aware that spoilers will be written about, so proceed at your own risk:

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There was a huge rash of deaths on Monday, between Bo Diddley, Yves Saint Laurent, and Anne D’Harnoncourt, that I feel compelled to write something about it.

–Wait–who was that third person, you ask?  Well, I’ll get to that.

It always makes me sad whenever one mentions the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the first association that comes to mind is “the Rocky movies.”  It also makes me sadder to visit the museum and see countless tourists (and locals alike) try to recreate their own version of the running of the steps, and focus more on posing with the Rocky statue rather than sparing a glimpse for any of the other pieces of art in the vicinity, or for the gorgeous building itself, which has a curious (and brilliant) story behind its construction, as told to Michael and I by one of his cousins (whose dad used to be the head of Fairmount Parks & Recreation under Ed Rendell, so he knows his Park history):

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