Like anybody in the vicinity of my age (and a generation before and at least a couple after), I became a fan of JD Salinger after reading ‘Catcher in the Rye,’ after which I tore through ‘Nine Stories’, ‘Franny and Zooey’, and ‘Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction.’ I don’t know that Salinger is my favorite author, though he’s certainly on the short list with John Irving, John Updike, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Isaac Asimov, Stephen King (yeah, that’s right, Asimov and King, you literary snobs), Philip Roth, Ray Carver, and, well, I think I better stop there, ‘cuz it occurs to me that I don’t actually have a “short” list, and this might go on for a while (and I haven’t even gotten to the ones who either went to or taught at SU).

Anyhow, suffice it to say, I’m a fan of Salinger, wish he’d published more stuff, and was quite enthralled to get to spend a night in the house where he purportedly wrote ‘Catcher’ (thanks to Melina), even if none of his literary genius rubbed off on me (though I am somewhat reclusive, and would be a hermit if I could still afford high-speed Internet and satellite teevee).

But I’m not a big enough fan to want to buy his toilet off e-bay – even if I could afford the $1 million asking price.

The listing claims that the toilet was purchased from the new owners of Salinger’s home in Cornish, N.H.
[…]
What the listing says about Salinger and this toilet:

When he died, his wife inherited all of his manuscripts with plans to eventually release some of them! Who knows how many of these stories were thought up and written while Salinger sat on this throne!

This vintage toilet is from 1962 and is dated under the lid. It will come to you uncleaned and in it’s original condition when it was removed from Salinger’s old home!

Oh, uncleaned. How wonderful. A dirty old toilet that might possibly have Salinger scat (or, dare we hope, perhaps one of the old man’s short-and-curly hairs containing sufficient DNA to attempt a clone?) embedded in its many nooks and crannies. Tempting as that is, I think I’ll have to pass.

In Tafalla, Spain, it was Humans 1 – Bull 40, as a bull jumped about 10 meters into the stands and managed to take out (though not kill) 40 people before he was captured and killed. Since they’d have killed him eventually anyway, I have to say, “good job.” By all accounts, Spain is a very nice place, but Spaniards really ought to see that this institutionally approved animal torture shit is pretty repugnant, and ought to stop.

The headline at the HuffPost says “Bloodsucking Bedbugs Found In Movie Theater.” What? As opposed to vegetarian bed bugs?

Bedbugs have attacked a popular movie theater in Times Square as New York battles the persistent pests. The AMC Empire 25 in Times Square was sprayed overnight and reopened Wednesday. A guest at the AMC Magic Johnson Harlem 9 theater also reported a bite in late July.
[…]
Bedbugs were found in two seats at the Empire 25 during an Aug. 3 inspection, and a guest reported being bitten this past weekend. Pest control experts were called, the seats were removed and new ones were installed.

You know, I thought the lo-cal news where I live was pretty lame (big news this morning: Urban Outfitters’ new store is opening today), but, geez, does “bugs found in movie theater” really rate national attention? What’s next, “cockroaches found in restaurant kitchen” or “Ponderosa salad bar cited for mouse droppings?”

Oh well, big day today. The doggie has to go to the vet for his rabies shot so that I can renew his lapsed license (we had a visit from the dog police, who said we have 7 days to get our shit together). He really (really) hates the thermometer part, and I of course can’t stand to be anywhere nearby when he’s being tortured. It really ought to be Granny doing this stuff, since, as a nurse, she’s trained to ignore (if not embrace) the suffering of others. However, my efforts to ignore things and leave it up to her has gotten us where we are today, so I guess I just have to man up and take care of it.

For the long term, though, I’m getting really tired of suburbia, and am starting to look for a place out in the sticks where we can get the hell away from neighbors. It’ll mean trading in my 3 minute commute for something ten times longer (still not much for those of you who live in real cities with actual traffic and all that). It’ll give me a chance to listen to my mp3 player and podcasts and stuff on the ride to and from work, so I think that’ll work out fine.

Speaking of podcasts, I’ve been a little off my Maron lately. Haven’t listened to one in a while, and I’m not quite sure why. I suppose I’ve just been listening to music more lately, and have been too lazy to even sync my player in about a week. That and maybe I’m a little tired of his opening schtick. Just feels like I’ve heard it before, and, well, I dunno. It’s not him – it’s me. I guess I’ve just got my own insecurities and stress and hopelessness and hassles and shoulder pain and high blood pressure to deal with, and I really don’t have room for anybody else’s bag of shit right now.

Just a phase, no doubt, and I’m sure I’ll get over it. Or have a paralyzing (though not immediately fatal) stroke. Whichever comes first.

Oh well, time to get out the door. Crappe diem.