Andrew and I are relaxing in San Francisco this weekend. I gave a talk at the Perl Mongers meetup on Thursday, which was awesome, but stressful.
I’m almost done with The Clown, by Heinrich Boll, which is one of the most depressing books I’ve ever read. “Didn’t you just read a depressing book before that, too?” Andrew asked me.
“Oh yeah, Cry the Beloved Country. This is more specific depressing, Cry made me despair of mankind in general.”
“So, it’s a pointed depressing.”
Anyway, I’ve been looking forward to getting it over with. It’s really good, but it is so sad. The book is very old, too, so it is sort of falling apart as I read it. It cries these little broken-off bits of paper all over me as I read it, like it was sad, too.
Anyway, this morning we went to the San Francisco Library (because we’re big dorks). They had a $1 book shelf, and I picked up a new, light, fun looking book.
“What’s it about?” Andrew asked.
“This movie star in drug rehab.”
He looked at me squiggly-eyed. “Sounds depressing.”
“The first sentence is, ‘I probably shouldn’t have given my phone number to the guy who pumped my stomach.’ I think it’ll be alright.”
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