“the afternoon is for very unhip places”

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Oooo absolutely: To Smithereens is a sweaty, breathless novel, heaving around in the dark—and the thing that makes it incredible is that it does this sweaty breathless heaving with so much swagger. It’s, forgive me, an Al Pacino of a book.

To Smithereens concerns a women’s pro-wrestling racket. I contain, frankly, no interest in this world, but I’m endlessly interested in: athleticism and art and arguments. To Smithereens has all that and grime on top of it.

Since I’ve read it, I’ve also been thinking about this part in the novel a lot. I think it’s not only about the shallow failure of cold 1970s art world ironic distance but actually about what’s actually funny in this world in general:

And this part about afternoons:

I couldn’t disagree and believe me, I tried.

HA-HA-HA, always,

Maggie

• My profile of our greatest lo-fi existentialist deadpan poet laureate slacker overthinker singer-songwriter, Courtney Barnett, was in the New York Times on Sunday.

• My wonderful friend ‘Pemi’s first novel (second book) is fantastic and it’s out in this world! It’s called One Leg on Earth and I can’t wait to talk to everyone about it.

• Indulged my partner and went birding with them this morning in Bartram’s Garden, which meant I tromped around with the toddler while Megan craned their neck at migrating warblers. But then my toddler and I saw a fox! A gorgeous, huge, truly orange fox! For once, a good deed went awarded.

• Made a really good, mostly effortless sandwich that I recommend: sautéed yellow & red peppers cut into Scrabble-chip sized pieces, prosciutto & turkey, pesto & mayo spread on baguette slices.

• Still mostly stomping around listening to Iconoclasts & Lux. They are albums for every season, it turns out.