I'm intrigued and irritated in equal measure by those "What I'm reading/listening to/diddling myself with" mini-meme themes that can be found on many personal blogs these days. In my typically self-satisfied and self-absorbed fashion, I suspect it's because I couldn't care less what anyone else is doing. Of course, I still really want to tell you, dear reader, exactly what I am up to and why I am up to it; but I'm too lazy to actually compose the summation -- so I simply provide a shorthand Baedeker in the form of
Reading: The Bible
Listening to: Klezmer dance mixes
...and that's supposed to tell you something about me. And it does, I suppose. But whenever I read someone else's bulletpointed lifestyle recaps, I think: "who gives a crap that you're reading The Kite Runner? And also, no, you're not. You're not reading The Kite Runner, and you're not listening to Al Green and you're not doing any of the things you are say you are doing. You've constructed that list to sound cooler than you are. You're sitting on your ass watching 30 Rock with the rest of us." The sole exception to this is Athena, who was reading China Mieville that one time -- and I think making butternut squash soup and painting a seascape with her feet and listening to The Dead Kennedys -- and I just thought, "this bish is making me look bad" and it was not the first time I have been jealous of that ringletted temptress and I am sure it won't be the last.
Anyway, you should not care, but if you can't stop yourself: this is what I am reading at the moment -- Gawker and the Rage of the Creative Underclass. It's quite interesting, particularly as I've just taken up residence in Los Angeles and am desperately trying to realize my own dreams of creative success. I recognize that the surest way of getting there for many -- at least for writers, which I consider myself to be -- is to nurture what the author of that article considers to be a rather self-defeating and hysterical (and more than slightly disingenous) rage. It's the prose of the perpetually irritated. It's the smugness of the disenchanted obsessive. It's the raison d'etre of sites like this one. Anyway, it's hard not to fixate on the catalyst for this dressing down of Gawker, which seems to be Grigoriadis' injured pride at the bashing she and her new husband took over entirely ludicrous interwebby kind of reasons; nevertheless, her point is more than reasonable and really: if I read one more rationalization of misogyny or casual racism as "snark," I'm going to go Naomi Campbell in this piece and start throwing cell phones.
Watching: old clips of Sanford and Son. duh duh duh duh DUH!