The Metrodome is now a small section of riser, a pile of rubble, and a bunch of tall cranes against the sky. The streets are no longer covered in two inches of ice, and the roofs are no longer buried under two feet of snow. I am trying to pull out of hibernation mode to glimpse my own shadow.
I'm reading Dust Devils on a Quiet Street by Richard Bowes in ebook and The Flamethrowers in book book. Of course the Bowes is brilliant, and the latter is much more interesting than the other NYTimes list book I just read. Motorcycles, conceptual art, and Italian leftists- what could go wrong?
Finished Once a Runner by John Parker and, after wading through the purplish prose and laddishness of the beginning, see why it's a runner classic. The unfocused feel of the first half mirrors the protagonist's mind, and by the end the writing is tight and knifeblade sharp, like a runner in the race of his life.
I really want to read the Tapir book but I put it somewhere in my house where I can't find it. Scouring the corners is my weekend plan, along with taxes. And maybe looking at dogs, as well as spectating at flyball dog's tournament if I can fit it in with swim class.
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