So yesterday I started a blog post about stuff that’s interesting—but after I snarked about J.C. Oates and Jon Franzen (and called them that)
(Had dream I worked in some huge McDonald’s—huge kitchen—a dozen oil vats, maybe—and, yes, I had done McD before but I didn’t recall the details and it was in a city or near a college campus, maybe—and manager told me to push—wherever there was a clot, push—but I didn’t engage, didn’t want to get in the way—so I found this outside area—maybe there were video screens? With political type messages, or maybe arts messages?
New Yorker (1 July? issue) article about Ed Ruscha (ROO-SHAY) and how he’s not a good self-promoter but somehow he still does get paid.
Anyway, yeah, about noon went to get keys for the Ed Jones office. M asked for the furniture they weren’t moving and couldn’t sell, apparently. And thick—inch and a half of particle board, heavy shit. N__ & L__ helped, brought a truck to help us move. Two trips, plus we carried some stuff in my car. Got it to M’s. I had felt a bit low-bloodsugar while at Ed Jones (in the building across from Costa’s) and went for some sugary snacks at the gas station thereby—(“by there”=”thereby”?) and then started to reassemble it at M’s office.
[From journal of Thurs. 1 August 2013, Journal 182, page 89]
MonkeyMoonMachine 