Bloomsday today. Ah, that means heading down to the Ulysses Folk House on Pearl Street in Manhattan starting at 11:30 in the morning and taking advantage of all those free drinks until the bar closes. There'll be food, music, and readings to celebrate Mr. Joyce's little project. A pretty good book. Much better than people think. Full of sex and weirdos. More books ought to be simply, utterly chock full of sex and weirdos.



Last year it rained the whole fucking time. Hope it won't rain this year. Last year Sam Shepard showed up unexpectedly and read a little bit. He was pretty drunk, but he still looked good and read like a cowboy full of doom, lightning striking behind him at all his pauses. We all read last year, all the Fiction Circus, but I think we're gonna be too late this year. We've all got fucking jobs now, or at least we are "employed." Still we'll be there at five or so, just in time for evening. We'll catch the Molly bit, anyway. One of the best parts of New York City is hearing "Molly Bloom" at Ulyssess Folk House on Bloomsday. Makes you want to find the nearest person who shows signs of sexual fever and get them off as best you can, even if you're married to them. I wonder if Joyce got it right about what goes through a woman's head when she's getting off, though. A bit presumptuous. Then there's that whole play "Exiles" he wrote about trying to get his friend to sleep with his wife. Guy had problems. Fun problems, though. Joyce! Got to respect the dapper little man in glasses. Free gorgonzola cheese, if I remember right. Last year, Colum McCann didn't believe I had ever read "Ulysses," even when he signed me up to read Buck Mulligan's bit about Jesus. Looked me right in the eye and doubted. Irish people. Think they invented writing. Good old Bloomsday. Makes June bearable. Hope it doesn't rain.

Posted by miracle on Tue, 16 Jun 2009 01:58:21 -0400 -- permanent link