Yes, believe what you see. I might eat the Bible, too, if I ever got around to reading it.
I can't quite explain why I've always felt compelled to do it; just that I have, from kitten-hood, felt an urge, stirring in my even-then large belly, to attack The New Yorker. It might have started shortly after the second time I saw that Nancy Franklin decided to take on popular television, and, surprise, surprise, found it wanting. Or maybe it began when Anthony Lane took Sacha Baron Cohen too seriously. At some point, I just started tearing. Of late, I've been catching up on a bit of reading, mostly because the day I finally make it out of this house and go to a party I don't want to be the rube in the corner nursing my cocktail far too fast to make a decent impression. But I haven't found much worth repeating. Take this article for example, which was far more delicious than it was nourishing, about Sam Shepard.
Everyone knows that Shepard is good - he won a Pulitzer! And it should be about as obvious that he has father issues as it is that I love pork chops. This is not new. It's not like he's dead or anything, and this rapidly disappearing article hardly touches on one of the few timely pieces of information - that A Lie of the Mind is now on Broadway, a production directed by Ethan Hawke, which receives only parenthetical mention in this piece. Maybe, I thought mid-bite, I would be less likely to eat this magazine if I felt I much related to the somewhat random preoccupations of some of its writers. Until such a time, though, I will continue to dig into it every chance I get, and wait for the day that Sacha Baron Cohen contributes a piece about pork chops and how he dreams about them, just as I do, but all the more fervently for perhaps never having had the chance to eat them. Oh, and I will say that I would never ever chomp on an installment of the Cursing Mommy.
In my next post, be assured that I will actually go on an adventure. Today, however, the world looks far too cold and rainy.
Over and mauf.
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