Much stuff happening. Firstly, I think I’m over pasta. For most of my life, I’ve longed for a human equivalent to Purina Dog Chow — you know, something that gave me everything I needed, but didn’t require a lot of preparation. For seven or eight years, pasta has been my People Chow. I could always whip up some angel hair, fettucine or gemelli when I didn’t know what else to eat and didn’t want to think about it. But lately, I’ve felt like I’m just tamping the pasta down my gullet. Last night, I barely ate half the serving I prepared for myself. So I’m going to have to go back to the drawing board.

I know people are complaining that it’s already 2005 and we still don’t have hovercrafts. But please, can we get on the food-in-a-pill thing so I don’t have to spend so much time thinking about meals?

Secondly, I whipped through 98 pages of Bright Lights, Big City last night. I can sort of see the connection my friend was talking about. Similar themes, perhaps similar writing. Of course, McInherney is way more smart than I be.

I like the book though. I was afraid it was going to be much more similar to Brett Easton Ellis’s work. Ellis’s characters’ lack of any moral center usually makes me sick. McInherney’s protagonist is much more realistically three-dimensional.

Prior to Bright Lights, I’d read Elmore Leonard’s Mr. Paradise. It was the first novel of Leonard’s I’d read. It was very enjoyable but almost un-book-like. Reading it was like watching a movie. In many ways, I like that quality — quick action, little extraneous narration. But it does make me consider the aesthetics of writing. I’ll leave that vague.

Finally for today, I suppose I must catalog the defeats of Mr. K. I ponged for the first time in a long time with Todd K on New Year’s Eve and Day. I think I went undefeated on the Eve and lost one or two games on the Day. The losses were particularly poignant for Todd who’d gone as the big winner against his family while home over Christmas. Long after we’d finished the last game on New Year’s Day, Todd considered that the area where the ping-pong table is in his house might have contributed to his defeats. He’d gotten used to playing in an area where he could back up and crush the ball. In his house, there’s no room to back up so you’re forced to play with little flips of the wrist, not huge swings of the arm.

Excuses, excuses.

So, I guess that makes me Mr. December.