Yeah, right, and what hood would that be, my good man? The same hood where you buy olive bread, blue cheese from CH, and Rioja? The same address where DeBragga sends you spectacular American Waygu? I thought so. Boy, if you was any whiter, I’d mistake you for a piece of chalk.
Meanwhile, filling the space in which desire resides, I finished reading a remarkable review in the London Review by James Wolcott of Styron’s letters. Wolcott, speaking ill of the dead, notes, “the sheer awful self-conscious succulence of the prose,” a view I happen to share, and quotes Styron’s daughter Alexandra from her memoir: “I thought, not for the first time, of the exquisite irony embedded in my father’s relationship with his readers, an irony I was still trying to reconcile as I worked to make sense of the man after his death: how could a guy whose thoughts elicit this much pathos have been, for so many years, such a monumental asshole to the people closest to him?”
Well, as Busta Rhymes says, “Enough of that!”
So it’s back to the streets then with the two, big black dogs.