May 7th, 2006
114769970739097138
A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man
What is a young man anyway? Is that still me? Am I out of that age bracket? My mother had been married for half a dozen years and would soon be pregnant with me when she was my age, but what is tonight for me? A cheese hangover, euro coins burning a hole in my pocket and a plastic bottle of coke to show for it. Below the wrangling youths holler, and above I wonder if I shouldn’t be out photographing neon or trying to make friends in Bastille with five singular words of French.
It was a lousy book, unfortunately. The beginning was all right but the second half was so goddamn preachy I may not even have finished it. It’s too bad, because Dubliners was wonderful. Even though I have black and white stock, it’s time for a little voyeurism.
