Lately, I harbor quite a bit of rage. I'm not sure if it's because of the war, because of being less talented and beautiful than I'd like to be, because I'm lonely, because my day job gets me down sometimes, because I don't live near to the people I'd most like to live near, or what. But whatever the cause, I'm really struggling with The Media right now. Everything I read seems utterly ridiculous. Like I know the truth and clearly recognize that NO ONE ELSE IN THE GODDAMNED WORLD KNOWS IT and that certainly what's being presented as "news" is not only not news, it's not even fluff. IT'S TORTURE.

And you know, that reaction just makes no sense and just isn't funny--I mean, part of the rage I've got in me is because there is actual torture going on in the world right now--with plenty of it being done in MY name, in all our names, by Americans.

Anyway, The New York Times tonight looks like The Onion. I'm sorry, but just look at this screen grab from the Times:

It's not me who can't find or keep a boyfriend--it's my apartment! Well that's news, isn't it?

And oh look, readers of the New York Times are looking to become what? That's right!--Bankers to the poor! [long silence]

[loooooooong silence]

Um, okay, pick me up off the floor now, wouldja? My sides ache. Even laughter hurts these days. Paging Patsy Cline. Paging Patsy Cline. White courtesy telephone, Miss Cline. Good news, Patsy, the readership of the New York Times wants to be your banker.

And then we have "Face Yoga Takes Wrinkles to the-----------------
oh, nevermind.

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I just finished reading André Aciman's Call Me By Your Name, which I loved immensely. I'm a terrible reader of fiction--averaging one novel per year--so I won't go on about this book. Take a look at this glowing review in the Times (I know, the Times!), and you'll get a sense of this wonderful story. The book's third section--and climax--takes place in Rome, and as the characters stumbled around drunk with love I was put right back onto those winding dark streets I first saw in 2002. Rome is magical beyond belief, and this book brings it to life in these pages. Or perhaps it's just the author's ability to bring a situation to life. There were moments in this section where I not only felt like I was there, but I felt like the events and emotions being described were happening to me simultaneously. Or rather, I felt nostalgia for something I actually have never experienced. To me, this is the transformative power of literature. Bravo, André Aciman.

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Mark Fox gave me a recording of Renée Fleming singing Strauss' Four Last Songs. Mom, if you don't have this yet, turn off the computer right now and go out and buy it.

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