“TWO HUNDRED HOURS, darkness, the Gunnar Myrdal : all around the old man, running water sang mysteriously in metal pipes.”
Economical in length, lyrical in execution, that’s my favorite sentence in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, a book whose cover always fascinated me, but whose predictable lack of softcover edition kept me from purchasing it upon release. I remedied this last quarter and 566 pages later, gentle reader, I can safely say that this finely-wrought book deserves the praise lavished by many.
I also worked my way to the thrilling conclusion of this game today. As was the case with The Corrections, this game stands proudly above its competitors.
And then, as dinner came to a close and as the thermometer took an ungainly spill, I went with some friends to the opening night of Graffiti Dancers. The admission fee proved a pittance for the production and despite the lackluster emceeing and atrocious strobe light usage, the dancers emerged charged and unscathed.
One could certainly make a case for the fallibility of humans and whatnot, but damn it if our species doesn’t produce some fine shiznit from time to time.
Once upon a time, gentle reader, on a warm, brilliant evening, I strolled along the Lakeshore arm in arm with someone I loved very much. The conversation–quiet, intense, meandering–was engaging, the stars were just so, the moon was actually rising, and Galileo was wrong for a night because the world revolved around us.
Then, in a most discordant moment, she stopped and listened. After a few seconds, I heard it too–the curious sproing-sproing-sproing of springs coiling and uncoiling. A few seconds later, giggles wove themselves between these sproings, and realization dawned on me. Either some of my enterprising peers had decided to take up TWILIGHT TRAMPOLINING or, as the inimitable Casey Newton once wrote in “The Dish” (a fiendishly well-written webjournal that garnered readers galore, may it rest in peace), NU students had decided to engage in “the time-honored tradition of having sex by the Lakefill.” Cripes above.
How on earth did these people manage to drag a mattress that far? How did they avoid mosquitoes and the like? What if they accidentally rolled into Lake Michigan? All valid questions, I’m sure, and probably questions that will never see answers. Except for the last one. You see, dear reader, with the advent of spring–and thus, the advent of romance–this phenomenon will no doubt rear its unseemly head once again. Nothing grates on the nerves and shatters a serene evening walk quite like mattress springs, so allow me to make a suggestion. The edge of the Lakeshore, as Evanston readers will note, sits a few feet above the lake itself. Accordingly, then, the stage is set for gravity to work its mysterious ways. The next time you hear the tell-tale springs, help the happy couple relocate into the lake. Counter the sproing-sproing-sproing with a simple shove-shove-shove, and Nature will take care of the rest. To borrow from those famous lyrics, I’m telling you to GET YO’ (slightly different) ROLL ON.
“Um,” you ask, “is this a moral thing to do?”
“What’s that, gentle reader?” I ask. “Didn’t you check your morals along with your coat when you entered my skyscraper?”
“Oh,” you reply with eyes downcast, “no, I forgot. Sorry.”
That’s okay, gentle reader. You may run along and do so now. Even if it was morally questionable–and that’s a big “if,” let me add–you’d help Bonnie and Clyde be more efficient. Heaven knows they were going to shower afterward, so why not speed up the process and treat them to a bath?
But soft, gentle reader! Behold, for Carl decided to paint his short bus a brilliant blue today. That’s right, you read correctly. I said short bus. Carl erroneously believed we made peace back in March, but I guess the Aides beg to differ, eh?
Do you know why we need to protest the short bus, dear reader? We need to protest because we don’t have bustonomy. He writes, “No you can’t take the wheel, but I’ll drive you wherever I please.” Excuse me? What about my destination? What about my comfort? What about MY needs?
Speaking of comfort, Suite 280 has yet to decide on the significance of pants, but we have decided–well, two-thirds of the suite, at least–to support the Chapman brothers and purchase some of their fine swag. In mere days, our capitalist society will deliver into my hands an orange Pom Pom shirt, size small, for a mere fifteen quid. Bless your heart, Uncle Sam, bless your heart.