Chandler said a man ought to get drunk at least twice a year just on principle, so he won't let himself get snotty about it. I guess I weigh in at about four times a year. Other than that you'll see me lounging in bars with a half-full warm beer in my hand just so I don't look out of place. I like knives, tattoos, and women. I really like knives and tattoos.
Angels with Filthy Souls
Everything you need to know about life can be learned from Point Break. Lie to get the girl. Talking before a fight is a waste of time. Always wear a mask when robbing a bank (someone should have told my brother). Respect Gary Busey. And there's no fucking way Bells is bigger than Waimei, brah.
Television is just one more facet of that considerable segment of our society that never had any standard but the soft buck.
Gods in the Cellar. A novella about how autobiography originated as a self-reflective psychoanalytic technique--Thanatos vs. Eros, Super-ego vs. Id--set to the backdrop of various world mythologies. The author has a complex love/hate relationship with post-modernity. Very ahead of its time. And don't tell me you've heard of it you pretentious pricks.
19th century Russian writers. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Chernyshevsky, Herzen. Fetch me a round table, a couple of samovars, and the most spartan fare so as not to glut the mouths of great men with anything other than words hollered in invective. The meal would end with Feodor driving a chicken bone into Nikolai's windpipe, Alexander hurling abuse at everyone from the farthest corner of the room, and Leo demonstrating his great strength by lifting Ivan into the air who senilely calls for Bazarov to tear it all down and put nothing in its place.