For the same reason, I inhaled The Quality of Life Report Sunday. It, too, was oddly comforting in its mishaps, imperfect old houses and unwieldy lives. Not the perfect book, but perfect for a day spent huddled under layers of blankets, wanting nothing more than distraction.
The way I�ve been sounding lately makes me feel as though unwitting readers would picture me something like a dour, round and chapped old Scandinavian immigrant woman, hair severely pulled back, dress sleeves rolled to the elbows, stooped to scrub endless piles of filthy laundry in an old copper tub. A bit raw and harsh. It�s not all that.
Sometimes, though. Of course I was in Chicago last night, and it�s fall, so it was gloomy, misty and gorgeous. I was close to his neighborhood, and as we headed to a late dinner, we kept running into couples kissing and cuddling on the street and in cars, and it brought the past crashing back, all covered in a nostalgic sepia wash. It made me feel stupid and backward and stunted, and I just might�ve had a moment in a parking lot where I yelled, �Chicago fucking hates me.� That last part wasn�t for him, though. That was for every museum, studio and publishing company that made me drive up for an in-person snubbing.
Growl.
(Insert unwieldy transition about going to many marvelous little concerts in Chicago with that fellow, a tired and dull transition, but the best I can presently do.) Do y�all remember when I was so obsessed with reading John Wesley Harding�s fall 2001 tour diary? How I found him such a compelling and witty writer? How insulted I was, after going to an intimate show, that he failed to mention in his online journal the ravishing redhead in the audience? No. I see. Well. Flash forward to about one month ago, when I was again thrilled with him, as I heard he�d be performing at the Wisconsin Book Festival. Seems the book gig will soon be his bag, as he has a forthcoming novel. Evidently a rather lucrative deal.