I hope no one ever makes a documentary of my life. Not because I feel incapable of great deeds or am unsure of their coming. Rather, it seems that every biography papers over the indecision, angst, and apprehension that I sincerely hope has plagued the luminaries before me. I understand that Ernest Hemingway's bad poetry and Jeff Tweedy's shitty mix tapes make for poor prose, yet it makes relating difficult. The biography kick I have been on recently has made this obvious. A paragraph about lost years capping off a lengthy list of dates and places intended to sum up a childhood and family history, the dryness of which may only be topped by your neighborhood police blotter. Perhaps I'm not the target demographic, but if the telling of a lionized figure's life is not inspiring future genereations of partially-molded minds then what, praytell, is the point? We either need better authors or better youth. I suppose this entry forgoes the latter conclusion by its ver...
Bryan. Rambling. You. Reading?