Metropolitan Life

I am drinking coffee because I didn't yesterday, because I told myself that I was going to treat my body right, coddle it until this sickness was out of my system. And the thing is, it is the smallest amount of sickness, just a sore throat, but something that I feared would snowball into something larger, more painful, and I thought I could nip it in the bud, kill it with cold medicince and lots of warm liquids other than coffee. I woke up this morning and still have the slightest tickling sensation in the back of my throat. And Quinn, this morning was hacking up a lung in our kitchen, and I forgot that she was sick and realized that she was probably the person who gave me this little bug that I have now.

So yes, coffee. Yes, to work. And yes, to probably drinking tonight with people whom I love.

I finished that Fran Lebowitz book, Metropolitan Life, last night and I don't like her much at all. Her humor is so insular, all these New York is the only place on Earth jokes, and her humor is so dependent upon one liners. There is also lots of dated humor that just seems offensive now, cracks about lavender gays and cracks about women's liberation, I guess written when there were people that still earnestly used that phrase. But these jokes are too easy. I think I rolled my eyes more than I laughed reading this book. I like stuff a little more nuanced that can build and sustain itself for more than two pages. Most of the pieces in this collection are between two and five pages. The longest one is only nine pages and that one is mainly just a list of things. She is witty, for sure, but I have no clue why she is held in such high regard by so many people. Surely, because those people holding her in high regard are confirmed that their insularness, their smug belief that New York is the only place that matters, that this is the case, comforting them that this is so, and that they are not the provinical twits they really are.