Anybody actually seen 300?

Now available for the price of three Hopsickles...

It's another 9/11, and nothing has blown up. I keep asking 'what if' re that eBay 2,500 record option, and I bid $400 and still got beat; luckliy that site has more necessary items to look at. There's certainly more to life than vinyl, but records are fun, and dammit I like fun. I've got that Mating book now and man is it ponderous. Pro football sucks, and thankfully the salmon run has started, which means I'm north bound with the rod and tackle this weekend. That's all.

An Editor's Note

Pete Dexter is my hero. He has not written a poor novel, he likes (or liked) to drink a shitload of booze, and the woman (women) in his life put up with his nonsense, at least in the long haul. Paper Trails, a thin volume courtesy of Ecco Press, reprints 80 of Dex's newspaper columns from his time in Philly, South Dakota, and Sacramento, and everyone reads like a Dex novel (some were the basis of his narratives). Paper Trails gives us violence, drunks and whores, but it also gives us dog fuckers (one upping Vick, dare say), forgery artists, cougars, sex, tractors, and jellyfish attacks. This in the book's first half. Lest I forget, in his smokin' intro he slags David Milch, Mailer, and cunt Jonathan Yardley, and I cackle out loud about once a minute. Hail to the king, and god save your tired, broken body; there's no one close to the man at getting right to the action.

Thank god for hillbillies, the pac-10 face saving Cal Bears, and douche-nozzle record producers. And like I need anything else to read: I can wait a couple weeks. Where are my smokes?