The World's Worst Critic Writes
I'm not as well-read as an English Literature student should be. I like to think that this is because I harbor a healthy contempt and disregard for the obvious, antiquated, university-degree-by-numbers poetry, plays and prose my faculty throws up at me, and it kinda is about that. It's also, however, that I'm a lazy bastard who spends too much time shoveling hyperbole at average indie bands, and drinking. However, once, every so often, I'm made to read the turgid steaming piles of over-analyzed shite they give me, under pressure of things like essays and presentations. The last presentation I gave was on 'The Picture of Dorian Gray', which I found enjoyable, not as farcical as the other Wilde stuff I've read (which admittedly isn't much), and rather self-conscious in its execution, as though old Oscar knew that 100 years after he wrote it, smart-arse students would still be quoting it, still congratulating themselves for remembering it, and still celebrating it for no other reason than that Morrissey told them to. But I digress.

My point is that occasionally, University spews forth a book actually worth reading. Thomas Pynchon's 'The Crying of Lot 49' is one such book; honestly, it's a mere 150 pages long, and it's one of the funniest, most confusing, and most downright weird novels I've ever read. And for that I thank Professor John Coyle. But for 'V', I thank 'Lot 49'. It's Thomas Pynchon's first novel, and at 500 pages long, it looks a little offputting. But it's utterly, utterly brilliant. It's so dense and complex, I wouldn't do it justice if I tried to summarize it here. It's about everything and nothing, is about the best I can do. A secret history of the 20th century, if you will. I don't know why I'm using Livejournal to express my utter awe at this book. Perhaps its because when I mentioned 'Pale Fire' in a previous post, everyone agreed that it was completely brilliant. As a Brit, I'd never even heard of Pynchon before; I'm guessing most of the Americans will have, and will be wondering why it's taken me (nearly, I'm not quite there) 21 years to grasp his brilliance: whatever, you guys still don't get 'The League of Gentlemen'. My point is this: 'V' = Best Book Ever. Until I start 'Gravity's Rainbow' next week, at least.

In other news, I'm back in New York after my Christmas stint in New Orleans, which is a lovely city spoiled only by tourists. I don't like to think of myself as one of them. There's nothing more embarrassing, nay insulting, than someone going about their daily business only to be snapped by some gormless sunvisor'd idiot wielding a disposable camera, whooping at his bumbag sporting wife as though he just shot a lion on a safari. I can't fucking stand tourists. But New Orleans, what a town. Alligators everywhere. Heads severed and varnished, of course, but creepy nonetheless.

I'm home soon. I've had a good time out here, but I miss a few people back home. Which reminds me. Anyone based in London, I'm coming down, along with five of my mates, for a joint 21st, on the 21st, oddly enough. Not sure what we're doing Friday, but Saturday we'll almost definitely be at Frog, should any of you wish to buy me a drink and congratulate me on reaching an age where I can now drink in every continent on planet earth. And let's be honest, is there a cause more worthy of celebration than that? It's being given the keys to hoachdom, having the planet at your drunken command. Anyway, let me know if you fancy coming out.

Over and out.