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….
metrotextual 
daddy daddy if you could only see:
“With the blanket in hand, I walked back to my father. It was a thin blanket, laundered and sterilized a hundred times. In fact, it was too thin. It really wasn’t a blanket. It was more like a large beach towel. Hell, it wasn’t even good enough for that. It was more like the world’s largest coffee filter. Jesus, had health care finally come to this? Everybody was uninsured and unblanketed.” (33-34)
“I want to call up my father and tell him that a white man thought my brain was beautiful. But I couldn’t tell him anything. He was dead. I told my wife and sons that I was okay. I told my mother and siblings. I told my friends. But none of them laughed as hard about my beautiful brain as I knew my father would have. I miss him, the drunk bastard. I would always feel closest to the man who had most disappointed me.” (63)
sharing flossy’s brain:
“Yes, the kid was a decent athlete; yes, the kid was a decent student; yes, the kid was a decent person. But he had broken into my house. He had smashed my window and was stealing my DVDs and, it I had not been home, would have stolen my computer and television and stereo and every other valuable thing in my house. And his mother, Althea, instead of explaining why her good and decent son had broken and entered a stranger’s home, committing a felony, had instead decided to blame me and accuse me of being yet another white man who was always looking to maim another black kid-had already maimed generations of black kids-when in fact I was a reservation Indian who had been plenty fucked myself by generations of white men. So, Althea, do you want to get into a pain contest? Do you want to participate in the Genocidal Olympics? Whose tragic history has more breadth and depth and length?” (16)
“‘Ah, man, I love Trader Joe’s. But you know what’s bad about them? You fall in love with something they have-they stock it for a year-and then it just disappears. They had those wontons I loved and now they don’t. I was willing to shop for you and the boys, but I don’t want anything for me. I’m on a one-man hunger strike against them.’” (44)
“The director was wearing cargo shorts. Sherwin was convinced that nobody over the age of thirty-three should ever wear cargo shorts.” (169)
“…But O, the last track
Was the vessel that contained
The most devotion and pain
And made promises that you couldn’t take back.” (184)