what was that? is that all there is? who is this? this is it.

I wasn’t looking for Pushkin. He found me. 

I wasn’t looking for Proust. But he found me too. 

Whatayagonnado?

coo coo ca choo

Who knew?

At UW Surplus last week I got a pack of Pushkin Portrait Postcards. Only one brick short of a load: fifteen out of sixteen original oversized postcards printed in the USSR in 1987, for 50 cents. Are you fucking kidding me? What a deal. I can’t say I knew anything about Pushkin last week. Now a week later I can say I know a very little small miniscule amount. But these cards are inspiring me to learn more about this Russian dude. I encourage you to read the wiki page description of how he died. I won’t spoil the story for you. 

And a few days ago this Proust book jumped into my hands out of the little free library. I’m only 17% into it so far but it’s a great one. I recommend it to you. Sort of a self-help book. A tool to gain appreciation for everyday life as well as everyday books you’re reading. It beats the hell out of slogging through all 4,215 pages of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. 

It’s like life on Sesame Street:

Today we're talking Ppeople 

Pushkin

Proust

Pilder 

3 Comments

price check on double espresso @ MONORAIL circa 2007...

In my most desperate moments, I have never conceived of anything more horrible than a law office

word

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