Monday, August 23, 2010


Hello my people! I am writing to you today from the right-hand side of the couch eagerly waiting for the moist, boiling-hot heating pad to which I've grown accustomed. (Bob, FYI, this has no connection with you whatsoever. I freely admit I wrote to you "I've grown accustomed to your face." But I would not, did not write or even imply "I've grown accustomed to your boiling-hot heating pad with whom I've established a close and personal and dangerous relationship." I think that would be inappropriate, don't you? Not to worry, I'm all over this one. You noticed the heating pad has graduated to a "whom." We're also now on a first name basis.)

And yes, you lovely reader people, there actually is a Bob. (Bob, please don't let this admission flip you out or anything.) By the way, in reference to yesterday's post, Bob might very well be a real intellectual but Bob, if you find this discomfiting, I think I'm safe describing you as a Renaissance Man. Just accept it, okay?) Oh the pain, damn that moist boiling-hot heating pad, you're so horribly good.

My friend Rich today turned me on to a site when he learned that I dig maps. (No maps in particular. Battlefield maps are good. Insets of any kind are good. The Hagstrom New York City street map kicks serious ass. One of my favorite birthday presents of all time was The Times Atlas of the Second World War. Seriously awesome. You can't believe how often I reference it. And I can actually follow my Dad's trail as he wended his way to Germany ) The site is: There is one particular map on this site that is making me wild. (No I haven't had time to explore the rest of the site, but it looks especially tasty. But have I got a good one for you!)

The map of wonder is "US States Renamed for Countries with Similar GDPs." How can that not be great? Washington State is now Turkey. Maine is Morocco. New York is Brazil. New Jersey is Russia. (New Jersey?) Texas is Canada. New Mexico is Hungary. (Does that mean that the citizens of New Mexico find Roma Orchestras, drink Bull's Blood and cry and name their children after their favorite Hun? I think that would be a good thing. It'll bring out the barbarian in all of us. He (or she) needs an airing out every now and again.) Is this not fantubulous or what?

Since When keeps changing. Lord can I say it without vomiting? Deepening. I think I'm starting to understand what it's about which is a damned good thing since I wrote the fucker. My old friend thinks this- writing a book (remember, I didn't know I was writing it until it was just kind of there.)- is a bigger deal than reading the Iliad in ancient Greek which she is reading because most everything else is too fucking easy to do. Maybe. Especially if I figure out what the thing's about. (My god, I can't tell you how incredible it feels to have her back. It really is inexplicable.)

All right, I actually understand her reasoning for reading the Iliad in ancient Greek. I am physically unable to read pap. I can't focus on it. I can't derive pleasure from it. Hey I pretty much stopped reading for pleasure while I slaved at G and R. I had no energy for anything that I would enjoy. It pissed me the hell off that I had gotten halfway through The Brothers Karamazov right before I was hired. Have job, no more reading. So the first book I pick up after surviving the mange or whatever it was I had and was yet again able to read. (This time it was physical. I think it took me more than a year to be able to focus. I couldn't even read newspapers I was so fucked up.) The first book I pick up? The Brothers Karamazov. (Big surprise.) I read it. I liked it, and I was really happy I finished it after twenty-five years give or take.

My back is being boiled once more. My therapist is on her way. One last item. Bob, it's too late. You have become one of my characters of my Blog. I apologize profusely. It just happened when I wasn't looking.

1 comment:

  1. Hmmm. One of us, ahem, may have taken an entire seminar on The Brothers K in college, read it (in Russian, no less), and yet can't remember a thing about it. Sad, living with a sieve for a brain.