#uite

This is why I didn't follow them. It was quite obviously not what it billed itself to be.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017 

Realizing I had not yet gotten a copy of the book for tonight’s class I head out.  Beautiful day, so I prefer to take the bus up to the Columbia area.  The store is just down the street from Tom’s, the diner used in Seinfeld.  (Just inside is that famous Kramer portrait.)  In front of the bookstore (formerly Labyrinth, now Book Culture) are shiny hardbacks, on a cart, marked down.  I resist browsing.  Right away find tonight’s book.  Begin reading it on the bus coming back downtown to my neighborhood. 

Our President is giving a speech tonight.  He says he not attend the annual press roast, whenever that is.  One thinks of what LBJ said about it.  (This by way of Russell Baker.)  Someone said something like, “Come on, Lyndon.  It will be fun.”  Johnson, at the though of hearing jokes about himself, recoiled and said, “It sounds like about as much fun as throwing shit at the village idiot.” 

As the afternoon passes, little by little, I read the book.  “The Story of My Teeth.” It is quite  Latin and unremarkable but,  at good moments,  reminds me a bit of Borges. 

Evening.  At class I see a number of old friends.  The author is Valeria Luiselli.  The book is translated from the Spanish but she speaks fluent English.  I don’t get much out of her book.

Though rain was predicted the weather is quite nice when class breaks up.  At home I turn on the President’s speech.  My phone rings.  It’s Jim Thoma.  He is in St Louis, caring for his father.  He is a great son.  (I am, lately, realizing what a great son I have.)

This time Our President is making an effort to be more human, less bullying.  Maybe he has new writers.  In honoring the Navy SEAL who was killed on an ill-fated mission he embarrasses all of humanity by reading teleprompter words written for him.  “His name is etched in eternity.”  Or, something like that.  You know Trump is just reading and doesn’t believe a word of it.  Cameras then swing to shot of the deceased’s grieving wife.  It is all too awful. 

Note: Stanislaw Skrowaczewski died.  93.  He was making recordings in his mid eighties. Quite interesting little description in the obit about his escape to the West, with just his wife and a couple of suitcases. 

Dinsdag! Ik laat jullie weer even een klein kijkje in mijn leven nemen. Deze week was super druk, en ik werd overspoeld met pers pakketjes. Ik kreeg lekkere producten opgestuurd van Atkins, Kruidvat, Stapleton Yoghurt, Jan Pannenkoek en Tony’s Chocolonelys. Het liefst zou ik ze allemaal tegelijk willen reviewen, maar helaas gaat daar veel tijd en geduld in zitten. Ik beloof jullie dat ze snel…