Quick reprise of the life ambitions list. Not so much a mid-life crisis, as a mid-morning tea break:
Learn to drive. Only so it can afford me the opportunity to lean out of a car window and shout 'FUCK YOU, YOU HUMP' at the top of my voice. Then, and only then, will I be able to say that I'm a proper New Yorker. Sarah Silverman throws herself at me. Still not happening. Maybe if she lifted the restraining order on me, that might help. For someone other than myself to laugh at my Aufheben/Mike Leigh joke before I die. It doesn't help that the bastards have yet to release 'High Hopes' on DVD in the States. You can get a copy of 'Career Girls' in the States but you can't get hold of one of Mike Leigh's best ever films. You fucking kidding me? Abolition of the Wages System. It might help if St Marks Bookshop stocked the Socialist Standard. I must get back to them on that. If they can stock Direct Action, they can stock the Socialist Standard. Who reads Direct Action in New York? Who reads Direct Action full stop? Stop being so judgemental about anarchists that I meet on my travels. It can't be helped that 9/107/10 of them come across as smug, sanctimonious middle-class wankers. (Yep, I attended the NYC Anarchist Bookfair.) Want to cut off the American anarchist movement at the knees? Cut off funding for PhD programmes. It doesn't do me any favours anyway. I come across as the living personification of the SPGB's hostility clause, and I'll get an ulcer before they get any integrity. Read another novel before the end of the year is out. No, not re-read Ian Rankin, Denise Mina or Gordon Legge, but to actually pick up a book I haven't read before and to get past the first thirty pages. Suggestions please. For the blog to be linked to in a Guardian Sportsblog 'Joy of Six' post. Result. (Look under the sub-heading about Celtic snatching the title from Hearts in 85/86. The link is the mention of the Albert Kidd and Billy Connolly anecdote.) My cheeks are moist; my sitemeter is doing a work out and I'm embarrassed that individuals other than my immediate family, Reidski and someone in Mountain View, California has caught sight of my sawdust prose.
Now, when is Sarah Silverman back in New York again?