Monday, August 23, 2004

all claw their labels

Back in Boston after a rather exhausting conference in Montreal. We talked a lot about books; I ate and drank in the presense of important people. The head of Thames & Hudson USA, Peter Warner, turned out to be another Queens native. I discussed the ramifications of Wal-Mart's buyout of NPR with entertainingly obstreperous Brit Colin Robinson, who happens to be publisher of the radical nonprofit house The New Press. And I had the opportunity to ask one of America's most compelling, well-known, and hilarious political scientists how to lead my family from its gay-fearing, anti-choice, shrub-loving stupor. And he told me. More on that will come.

I will be in Boston for six days. I have not been in any one physical place for more than fourteen consecutive days in the past two months, and that's starting to disturb other people who hear about it. I feel at home everywhere I go. I feel homeless everywhere I go. Hmm.

In semirelated (heretofore semipurposefully, literarily unconnected to the rest of this post) news, two of Edvard Munch's most famous works have been stolen. Munch, of course, made himself a legendary career of converting being totally fucked up into a visual art form. And now we steal whatever is left of him.


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