Irritant

So I was reading the NYT's Book Review section yesterday, which despite the fact that I am a compulsive nonstop reader of books is a thing I rarely do because all it produces in me is a giant untamed raging feeling of WANT IT, WANT ALL THESE, NOW NOW NOW and that's really just unhelpful, life-management-wise, and I come across this, like, graduate skool essay by Katie Roiphe on the "meek" generation of American Male Writers (she names as evidence the truly genius David Foster Wallace and then sorta wanders on to all those Brooklyn kids named Josh and Jonathan and Joshua and whatever, that glib and annoying in-love-with-itself stuff I ain't got NO TIME for, because ugh). I admit I skimmed it -- wouldn't you? -- but I did catch that she was kind of defending my Most Hated of All Lit'rary Hatees, Updike and Styron and the rest of those disgusting lecherous old assholes, on the grounds that a lot of their writing about sex and women was -- allegedly, according to Katie -- intended to be comic. To which I have to say: buuulllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllSHIT.

That's all! OK, so, happy Monday, and welcome 2010!