I have no clothes on and there are candy wrappers in this bed
I spent the night at Molly's apartment yesterday. This morning I got up at seven thirty so I could leave with her as she went to school. On the Red Line towards North Avenue I saw the coolest fucking kid in the world.
Among other things (like the soul-wrenching fact that they're adapting both of my favorite childhood series into undoubtedly horrific films (see: His Dark Materials, The Dark Is Rising)) associated with my heightened sense of literary nostalgia, I often lament the fact that no one seems to know or care who Roald Dahl is anymore. Roald Dahl, author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach, Matilda - all titles commonly recognized. (No doubt due to their [boo hiss] movie versions.) One of my favorite Dahl books that has not yet been adapted into a swampy, cinematic pile of regurgitated gorilla poo is called Danny, the Champion of the World.
Anyway, the point is I love Roald Dahl, particularly the book Danny, the Champion of the world, and on the El this morning towards North Avenue I saw some twelve-year-old-looking kid writing in a notebook, a copy of - you guessed it - Danny the Champion of the World resting in his lap.
Now, just because he was reading this shining indicator of adolescent intellect and character doesn't mean he's actually awesome. I know he's actually awesome because as he finished writing and returned the notebook and The Book to his backpack, he pulled out a secondary volume, opened it to the marked page, and relaxed into his seat.
What was he reading? You may ask.
And I answer,
PERSEPOLIS.
I want this motherfucker to marry my sister. I don't care if he still has a baby face and she lives in California. I'll just take them to Kansas.
Among other things (like the soul-wrenching fact that they're adapting both of my favorite childhood series into undoubtedly horrific films (see: His Dark Materials, The Dark Is Rising)) associated with my heightened sense of literary nostalgia, I often lament the fact that no one seems to know or care who Roald Dahl is anymore. Roald Dahl, author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach, Matilda - all titles commonly recognized. (No doubt due to their [boo hiss] movie versions.) One of my favorite Dahl books that has not yet been adapted into a swampy, cinematic pile of regurgitated gorilla poo is called Danny, the Champion of the World.
Anyway, the point is I love Roald Dahl, particularly the book Danny, the Champion of the world, and on the El this morning towards North Avenue I saw some twelve-year-old-looking kid writing in a notebook, a copy of - you guessed it - Danny the Champion of the World resting in his lap.
Now, just because he was reading this shining indicator of adolescent intellect and character doesn't mean he's actually awesome. I know he's actually awesome because as he finished writing and returned the notebook and The Book to his backpack, he pulled out a secondary volume, opened it to the marked page, and relaxed into his seat.
What was he reading? You may ask.
And I answer,
PERSEPOLIS.
I want this motherfucker to marry my sister. I don't care if he still has a baby face and she lives in California. I'll just take them to Kansas.