This will be closer to actual blogativity because I am tapping this out on a wack, Soviet-style hotel PC and I have no access to my pictures and sites load so slowly that I cannot, in good conscience, rack up cc minutes looking for a funny picture to accompany the word "paper."
Rented bikes, rode to Crissy Field and back, lamented lack of jacket, saw the SFMOMA, took the Precita Eyes tour of street murals, had a pupusa or two, saw Harry Po$$er and The Azkaban Dude (my favorite of the three, so far), did not lament how easy a mojito can be had, slept the way a parent never sleeps, read Sunday paper in similar manner.
That Danuta de whatever book is annoying, more like "Houellebecq+Hornby" fed through the Guy Ritchie-izer. Will be enormous, will entail theme park. Sorry I momentarily fueled the hype train. (Wait--I am the worst tip sheet in the world. Even mentioning the book has doomed it. Ah!) Finished the book by reading maybe three words on a page.
Disappointed that two different indie bookstores here told me that NO biography of Wallace Stevens exists. One most certainly does, in two volumes, written by Joan Richardson. Not encouraging. Keep your game tight, people.
I don't even have to point out the unacknowledged logrolling in that DJ Shadow playlist, right? You can do that all by yourselves. (Next week, Chris Hitchens profiles up-and-coming novelist Martin Amis! In his home! etc.)Posted by Sasha at June 14, 2004 02:50 PM | TrackBack