nekare

Finished reading Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon today - and I'm really torn about it. On the one hand, the man has a way with words, and it's lovely storytelling, and more than anything, a story about writers, and a story about the words that have a hold on these writer. And yet, I HATED the main characters. They were all a bunch of man-childs, and the narrator was a toxic sad excuse for a human being. I don't know, he was just exactly the kind of person I particularly dislike, or at least all those little dislikes in people rolled into one. He just kept on annoying me with every new decision - or lack of - of his.

I would have much preferred the story to be about Emily and her family, or even James Leer and his weird childhood. Grady Tripp, though, just had all of it coming. Ah well.

By now I only have Summerland and his short story book to read of Michael Chabon, and that's what surprised me of this book, that it was nowhere near the genious of some of other books. Ah well.

Anyway. My grandparents had their 50th anniversary party. There was much crying done by my grandma. I saw a remarkable number of old people dancing cumbia, instead of the Arcade Fire gig that was on the same night. I have hung out a lot with my cousins, and went to see Eat Pray Love with them, which was, eh, very meh, but had pretty settings. Yeah, if we were all rich white ladies, apparently we could all have exotic vacations and do fuck all for a year, while learning from the wise brown people that oh, still have to work for a living! Yes, how exotic and quaint of them.