Time check: an hour before midnight. I could go watch the latest episode of The Walking Dead, but I figure quiet December nights like this are best for reading.
So I started reading the June 2016 issue of The New Yorker. Why not? It’s raining, I just came home from work, and I need something to do while I kill a mug of coffee and put my thoughts in order before I go to bed. I bought this out of curiosity weeks ago, at Booksale-Farmers, but it’s only now I get to read it. Whether I’ll be an avid reader or not will depend on this issue.
Earlier, at my solitary dinner at the office, I finished Charles Bukowski’s Post Office. There’s a character there, a female writer, who spends her days reading The New Yorker. Judging from what Bukowski wrote about her, it’s obvious that he didn’t think highly of artist types. Considering he is a “poet laureate of LA lowlife,” that is not surprising. It’s whores, drunks and urban squalor over painters, performance artists, and art galleries for him. Admittedly, I kind of feel the same way, too. But who gives a shit?
Still raining. The sheets are cool, and I got American Football on Spotify. Selah.