I have a gripe. In the mass media, I keep seeing and hearing how great it is to lose weight. We should cut back on calories and exercise, so we can wear better clothes and live healthier lives.
No, it’s not great to lose weight. It sucks to lose weight. I know. I recently dropped a size. I guess that happens when you run obsessively. Okay, yes, it’s really cool that I can wear my red jeans again (I love my red jeans), but most of my other pants droop and sag like clown pants. Yes, when you lose weight, you have to buy new pants. Your old pants don’t just magically form fit to your new size. Wouldn’t it be great if they could though?
Some of you (hi Stu, loved your snotgreen and scrotumtightening piece, that was awesome) might be wondering how my relationship with Mr. Joyce is going. I’m somewhere in the 80s of a 700 page book, so I’m about a 1/9th of the way through. I’ve met Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom and his wife, Molly, and Leo almost burnt the sausages.
I am currently in a state of delight with Mr. Joyce.
I think you have to be a mad reader to read Joyce. This is not science or mathematics or engineering. This is a half blind guy doing exactly what he was set upon this earth to do, and hot damn, he’s good. He relishes the act of writing. He’s standing up to God and the world and Ireland, and he’s throwing fireballs, and you get to catch them.
It’s like you’re Jeremy Renner’s character in The Hurt Locker. You’re throwing off your bomb protection suit and crawling through a burnt out car in Iraq to search for a bomb detonator. Your buddies are calling for you to get down, but you tear off your ear piece. You keep crawling around and tearing up the upholstery because you’re gonna get there, you’re gonna find it. You’re gonna find the wire of his thinking.
And when you find that wire, you’re gonna follow it to another wire and another and another.