Hanging In A Jar

This blog serves as a diary of sorts. It really probably only makes sense to me, but I'm glad I started it. I haven't achieved much of note but Graeme told me one day that this nonsense had inspired him to start a blog of his own . I'm so glad he did. Graeme was a great writer. He'd apparently tried to write a few books but kept losing interest. He said that he'd send them to me one day. "There is one about a man arriving to a surreal village, one about a man who is a pet to these ethereal aliens that he hasn't got the necessary senses to even comprehend, and one about someone who has lost his memory, set in an alternative London (with different tube stations and all very Soviet) but turns out to have been an important political dissident (that one was a bit confused..)." I don't think I'll ever see these stories now. Graeme died on Sunday. I don't really know why. I am angry at myself for taking him for granted. He really wanted to ha...

Harvey causing chaos on Letterman: I've been saying for a while that I'd like to go to Cleveland and knock for Harvey Pekar. People used to knock for Bukowski all the time. I'm sure that Harvey would've been a much better host. American Splendor was one of the first things that I read that really touched on the despondency of how I was feeling a lot of the time in my early 20s. Pekar pulled the humour out of the niggling tribulations and mundanity of everyday life. Life seemed to be laughing at him, even when things were going right. RIP Harvey. Russian Lullaby: John Coltrane. One of Harvey's favourites: