All good things...: .posted by ben on Mar 18 at 13:32
This is probably the last wasabi post. Sometime soon I will be porting the contents of this blog to my new blog. There will also be a group blog at http://nonplatonic.com. If you want an account or blog there you should send me a mail.
not as quotable as I thought.: .posted by ben on Mar 10 at 07:48
"His assertion that 'the potential of Flaubert's discovery of the quotidian was only fully developed seventy years later, in James Joyce's gigantic work,' compounds the error, wilfully overlooking novels like George Eliot's Middlemarch. This is biological determinism of the most extreme sort..."
Joan Smith, Misogynies, pg. 115
"The attentive reader will have noticed that the protagonist in these passages is female, a device whose purpose is to universalize Kundera's disgust and suggest it is shared by the objects of it."
Joan Smith, Misogynies, pg. 111
feminism is not feminism is: .posted by ben on Mar 10 at 07:47
There is nothing implied. Everything means what you say. I'm done. I'm done reading anything into anything. The philosophy that metaphor must die must be carried to its logical course. If I say I love you, I love you. If I say Italian sounds good, that's it. My every word is not based in some deep hatred of all women that is fundamental to the male. We are not all Jack the Ripper. Later I will quote Misoganies, and fume... fume until I flame... burst into that is... and it will all be literal. I promise. Metaphor is dead like metaphor is dead.
The phallocentric patriarchy... middlemarch.: .posted by ben on Mar 9 at 12:02
screwed up again.: .posted by ben on Mar 9 at 11:39
I was going to be so noble and independent. I was going to spend only my own money here... meaning only money taken from the government as an auspicious student, or given to me by my parents two decades ago... but no. Oh how I hate money, I hate my dependence on it, I hate when others pretend they are immune, I hate myself for pretending I am immune...
the tallest thing in dublin is a metal spike.: .posted by ben on Mar 6 at 11:47
shoes: .posted by ben on Mar 6 at 11:44
"Sir, Sir! It has to fit comfortably!"
I step on my pack again. Something bends, pops or breaks and it’s in the cursed little orange cage that’s half the size of the luggage compartments on the plane.
"It looks comfortable to me."
"It’s a backpack, how comfortable can it get?"
"An inanimate object."
Her faux English accent starts to show its Czech influence… coupled with a lack of humor reminiscent of a Soviet-era bureaucrat.
indie hipster cafe of uber coolitude: .posted by ben on Mar 6 at 11:42
that is so kafkaesque: .posted by ben on Mar 6 at 11:42
in prague: .posted by ben on Mar 6 at 11:07
The tourists all look pregnant. They wear their backpacks on their stomachs, having read about epidemics of pick pockets in Lonely Planet guides. They travel in flocks, the tight fitting jeans give them away. If they were Czech their jeans would be enema tight.
Baaaaaaath: .posted by ben on Feb 26 at 03:17
Strollers: .posted by ben on Feb 26 at 03:17
Having just had my 80 liter pack bumped by a stroller, I feel a sudden affinity for Adam's comments on the subject... comments which don't seem to be archived anywhere. At any rate, it was a stroller of the tricycle variety that crashed into my enormous bag. This one was unusual for the UK in that the baby was not encased in a plastic bag. Maybe it's a city thing, not a UK thing... outdoorsy Boulder babies need no plastic bags, only mountain air...
I'm going to Dublin!
"Excuse me, are you James Joyce?"
Stonehenge: .posted by ben on Feb 25 at 05:59
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