Sinister: the library's the place to redeem ourselves

[Sarah Garrett Sonner]

Stylish sinners all,

I don't raise my hand too often in class, but the days they are shortening. 
I hope all listees are having a pleasant week...herewith my once-a-season 
stammer.

TIME IS ON MY SIDE

I've heard part of Storytelling, and so far everything has reminded me of 
something else, whether that be the theme song to "Taxi" (which itself makes 
me nostalgic for the 70's--a decade I can't remember--is that possible?) or 
the 60's Rolling Stones, though that's perhaps because I've been playing 
them too often. (B&S cover suggestion: Play With Fire, or maybe 
Congratulations?) I think soundtracks are supposed to make you nostalgic 
though--for the movie itself or for how the movie made you feel, what it 
reminded you of, etc. Therein also lies the virtue of replaying old mix 
tapes. I refuse to see the film itself however--instead I'm going to see a 
movie about skater boys tomorrow, rowr etc.

THE ONLY LIVING GIRL IN NEW CROSS

Last weekend I attended an academic conference (professionalism--gasp!) for 
the first time ever. I actually managed to see Iain Sinclair speak, the man 
whose works I'm writing a dissertation about, and then lacked the guts to 
ask him a question. "uh, erm, what do you think about, uh, the function of 
decay, in the...urban?...environment?" would've been something like it, if 
only I'd been even that articulate at the time. Then afterwards a girl in a 
long polka-dot dress managed to approach him and start talking about her 
work, which I should've done had I the self-promotion instincts that every 
other human seems to have. Instead I ducked out of all social situations and 
jumped over the puddles that had meanwhile flooded Goldsmith's black and 
white floor tiles, then headed out and down to the tube stop amid blooming 
buddleia. Networking, feh.

I ONLY BUY A BOOK FOR HOW HEAVY IT LOOKS

It's (more or less) summer, which means I dust off my clogs once again. And 
they are very dusty, since I can't wear them as much in London (land of much 
more walking) as I did last year in Chicago (land where El stop and 
destinations were close enough to excuse the wearing of potentially awkward 
shoes). In her penultimate (sorry, I'm slow--but hey: I think technically, 
final punctuation should go inside parenthesis if parenthetical content is a 
stand-alone sentence) Robyn, and somewhere behind a fashionably turned-up 
acid-washed collar, the Boy G I'm sure, mentioned David Foster Wallace. The 
man pretty much owns the postmodern footnote (he got there before Dave 
Eggers after all), as well as the words "rictus" and "micturate." I sat at 
home last Bloomsday reading Infinite Jest and surviving only on cans of Dr 
Pepper--it was that good that I didn't need food. Infinite Jest (erm, not 
Expectations) inspired me to wear clogs in the first place, and if choice of 
footwear based solely upon a literary character isn't a high compliment I 
sure as fuck don't know what is. As for other attempted emulations of the 
PGOAT (for those in the know) I don't go so far as to wear a veil or smoke 
crack out of a Big Red Soda Water bottle. But there's time yet.

D EQUALS R TIMES T...IT'S EDUCATIONAL...

Further to verbal matters, Robyn, and no doubt others, said "blog" too and I 
will concur that I think it sounds almost as bad as "signage," perpetual 
bane of the chain bookstore merch employee, a role I once played. Blogging 
seems to be the new posting, which was the new lurking, which may have been 
the new having a life... I write this with full knowledge that I too am 
potentially locked into this evolution. Gack. I confess I had a zine in high 
school, back in the pre-internet days (double gasp!) so perhaps that's the 
cro-magnon ancestor of a weblog. "Blog" itself however connotes indigestion 
to me...I think it should count among Rachel Fruitloop's mantra of "crap 
hell doody boob on a shingle." And with that filth I end my intellectual 
niceties, rah!

YOU THINK I'M DEAD, BUT I'VE SAILED AWAY...

I gotta say my time in London has been made much brighter and more lovely 
due to the kind people from this list I've met/been shy around/bowled 
with/gotten tipsy with over the past 10 months. Mad props, y'all. I'm due to 
imitate Breams and Bappsy and head to another hemisphere before long. Before 
I could even suggest it, Ken's beaten me to the punch with a rallying call 
to the London Sinister Bowling League this weekend--can we get a t-shirt 
please? I'll also spread some homemade oatmeal raisin cookies around when I 
see some of you at the July 13th gathering...pretty soon Miss Mandee May in 
the environs of Denver will be the only fellow sinisterian upon whom I'll 
get to foist my baked goods...mayhap a Denver Massive is in my future, 
should a Massive be possible with 2. Certainly our 2 Simi Valley residents, 
and also I am sure those singular souls in more isolated locales, prove that 
they fucking represent.

love and clogs,
xox SGS


PS: I still can't tell the story of how I found one of the obscure treasure 
hunt clues and how damn special it made me feel since the fucking answers 
will never be revealed for the goddamn peace of mind of my ENzyme crew that 
did search for them so ardently...
Son of PS: Marianna gives good Reporting Back. When it's 11:30 and the club 
is jumpin' jumpin' she also makes it hott! hott!
Bride of PS: my dearest JennPB when will you again grace our digests with 
your sparkly charm?
PS, the Next Generation: Mad props and xxx's most of all to lovely listmums 
Honey and Linda!

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