so, there are a few reasons why one shouldn’t engage in discussions about ironic book titles with the clueless white people who can afford to buy organic pepperettes (retailing $9) for their dogs-they go something like this: (me) what are you reading? (lady) something by an indian writer-they’re just so magical and mystical, you know? all of them. it doesn’t matter which one. what are you reading? (me) war dances by sherman alexie, he’s the genius that wrote the amazingly true story of a part-time indian (lady) indian, like wa-wa (makes the flat hand over open mouth sign of universal racist assholery) indian? (me) hhmmmphhh. (back to the beginning).
but, in the opposite trajectory of my read-through of neil strauss’ collection-it would seem that i love alexie more with every work i devour, but this one could’ve been written by me. i mean, mixtape mourning, courting with medea, and expanding the idea of a dead stowaway roach into a piece called my kafka baggage? mad writer crush confirmed.
“‘I don’t want this to be a comment on the institution of marriage itself, which I believe in, but I want you to know that your marriage, while great for your husband and you, is an absolute tragedy for me. I’m talking Greek tragedy. I’m talking mothers-killing-their-children level of tragedy. If you listened to my heart, you’d hear that it just keeps beating. Medea, Medea, Medea. And yes, I know the rhythm is off on that. Makes me sound like I have a heart murmur.’
She laughed. He’d made her laugh three or four times since they’d met. He’d turned the avenging and murderous Medea into a sexy punch line. How many men could do that?” (124-5)
riiiiight? and on a tragically related bookend, the bitch that had no clue why i was giving her the cut-eye on monday as she lingered in the store in her offensive-ass geisha costume came by today clutching the help. i recognized her right away. grumble grumble. looks like i’m going to have many more discussions on scrapping the LCP in the coming days….