At a café this afternoon (free wireless, my arse. That's the last time I get a crappy 32-oz Turbo Coffee) I was sitting quietly minding my own bizness when a warm, wet something thwacked most unpleasantly against the back of my neck. I turned to see two five-year-olds laughing hysterically at the moist banana peel that formed a collar at my nape. Worse, I saw their parents-or-guardians holding their collective sides and laughing. I maturely resisted the impulse to upturn the remnants of the massive iced coffee onto the stupidly laughing father, and instead turned th' other cheek. Mis-guided, for I imagine that some day these children will be seated before the big red button that leads to disaster, and will moronically push it.
I cannot believe I walked away, but, really, what's the point of having an argument or a fight? Stupid parents beget stupider children, unto the seventh generation.
I read Tom Wolfe's gripping and lengthy American panorama, A Man in Full, without learning any new vocabulary. (Although, through Kunstler's review of Wolfe's latest, I did learn the appropriately vivid egestive. Now why ca'n't Kunstler afford a proof-reader, or at least some software that has a spell-check function?) A Man in Full's crafty sub-plot with Epictetus itself elevates the novel to approximately the level of John Grisham, which is to say, not very high. And Grisham does courtoom and big-ego drama much more effectively than does Wolfe. In comparison with Wolfe, Grisham wins, hands-down. Whom would you rather take on a plane trip? Oh, Grisham, I reckon. Both writers have a horrible way with plot, but Grisham at least has his characters utter believable conversations. And Grisham writes about place and character in a way that feel real. But surely you are aware of Mr Wolfe's long contributions to American culture, and his witty skewering of everything from architecture to corporate America? Yes, and I figure that Grisham does ditto without actually setting out to write his novels with such a pretentious checklist.
Wolfe is very proud of the quality of "reporting" that he brings to his work, subverting the assumption that the novelist should write what he (sic) knows. In this, Truman Capote out-does him. Wolfe just ca'n't win, except, perhaps, on the sartorial front.