Rain, rain, write

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?

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