My connecting flight to Detroit was cancelled due to weather. The friend I was visiting in Michigan was under the weather with a nasty cough. Thus began my trip to visit friends and family in the Midwest, where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above-average. Oh, and where winter storms shut down airports and nasty cold and flu viruses circulate like the gentle breezes rolling along the Santa Cruz beaches.
I came across The End of The F***ing World via a review in The Atlantic by Sophie Gilbert who calls it “Pitch-Black Perfection.” I was immobilized, anyway, from my vasectomy the day before, so armed with the perfect alibi to binge-watch for an entire day, I decided to give The End of The F***ing World a try. And I’m glad I did.
Am currently watching Godless, part of a new fixation with the Westerns genre. “No other nation,” the historian David Hamilton Murdoch writes in The American West: The Invention of a Myth, “has taken a time and place from its past and produced a construct of the imagination equal to America’s creation of the West.” From a good Atlantic article, What Godless Says about America.
Holiday preparations are complete. There are better stocked liquor cabinets, but for a nomad, this ain’t bad. A post shared by Jonathan Erdman (@erdman31) on Nov 26, 2017 at 1:54pm PST
I met Aline this summer. She’s a like-minded adventurer who really squeezed the most out of her first summer in Alaska, spending almost all of her free time hiking and camping and exploring the mountains and trails around McCarthy, AK. She’s also from France, originally, though she’s been in the States for quite some time now. She read some of my posts on capitalism and socialism. We were eating together, outside on a sunny afternoon in July, and we started talking about it all. Aline’s perspective was international, it was interesting, and I’m still mulling it over. Basically Aline’s main point (or at least the one that really stuck with me) was that she appreciated American mobility, the kind of uniquely American ability to be transient. We talked about it, and Aline expressed a good deal of sympathy for my pro-socialist and anti-capitalist writings, but said that there were many things about American individualism that she appreciated, and she wondered if we’d lose some of these things, were America to embrace socialism. As a quasi-nomad, …
Murakami is a Japanese author and one of the world’s most celebrated novelists. In fact, I’ve just started his magnum opus, 19Q4, and so far I’m hooked. His nonfiction work on running, however, left me wanting more. It’s a shame, too, because I had high expectations. I love running. After several years off, I ran a half-marathon, and I’m keen to do more in the future. If that weren’t enough, I have a fiction project myself, in the back of my mind, about a runner, which was one reason I wanted to read Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.
Tamara handed me my race number. “Can I have that one?” I ask, pointing to number 8031. “Uh, sure.” “Thirty one is kind of my lucky number,” I say, a little embarrassed, feeling the need to explain. The truth is, I’m anxious, and I feel like I need all the luck I can get because I’m about to begin a half-marathon, a 13.1 mile race, and my prior two half-marathons had ended in major injuries to my back and joints. For those two races, I’d been training, running distances that at least approached 13.1 miles. Coming into this race, though, my running had been zilch. In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d “gone for a run.”