It’s raining today, and tomorrow, and the next day. Oregon, woo. I’m supposed to be working on my thesis today — self-proscribed plan of re-engagement in the whole thing — but I can’t seem to get there. The problem is that, right now, I’m a little bored with my story. That’s not a good sign. Well, it’s not the story… it’s hard to describe. I’m tired of it? Maybe that’s it.
Spent money I don’t really have on T-shirts because threadless is having their spring sale. The new Sheryl Crow CD, which they play over and over at Starbucks, is not good: annoying, tonally similar across every track, the messages all unsurprising, the music… just too radio-targeted. They’ve also been playing some soulless jazz. Maybe I should move to somewhere the iPod would be viable.
I’ve been reading <i>TheBig Nowhere</i> by James Ellroy. It’s entertaining but convoluted, so far. I’d say the same for <i>The Black Dahlia</I>, which I finished a few days ago — but it had the most fascinating post-word I think I’ve ever read. Ellroy’s mother was raped and murdered in L.A. when he was very young, and this has apparently been his impetus for writing crime noir stories. <i>The Black Dahlia</i> was in part his exploration of his mother’s case. An interesting blend of true and false — the book is fiction, the characters invented, but the murder it’s based on is real. So how do you classify that?