lol dude, i've noticed this thread up top on the active topics front all day long with LAST REPLY: CURIOUS HAIR all day now, and go figure that it's not only a thread about DFW, but also that you're not interested.

did they really do a character assassination of the guy? perhaps an unflattering portrait of a guy whose grip on life was evidently tenuous at best, but that grip also allowed him to see the world in such a way that he could go TLDR on it and it's worth reading? maybe i should read the thread? =D

but yeah generally when there's a film about a book like this i'd rather read the book. or well, i assume there IS a book about this roadtrip out there, right CH? thats what i gotta go hit up the library for methinks cuz i think i gotta get back into reading sometime cuz it will help me with the occasional heavensent desire to KILL TIME DEAD ON THE SPOT. lord knows i need that or i might start typing one day and never stop til i'm publishing that big blog in the sky.

The future holds the possibility to be great or terrible, and since it has not yet occurred it remains simultaneously both.

The future holds the possibility to be great or terrible, and since it has not yet occurred it remains simultaneously both.

the fact that DFW's references to church and belonging to churches were aliases for recovery groups.

Trenchant insight as always.

The future holds the possibility to be great or terrible, and since it has not yet occurred it remains simultaneously both.

110% sure you've seen this already, but on the off chance you haven't, it's good readin': http://www.theawl.com/2011/04/inside-da ... lp-library

The future holds the possibility to be great or terrible, and since it has not yet occurred it remains simultaneously both.

Im pretty hammered right now.

I simply cannot think of a better forum for this type of discussion.

I'm thinking that was Jimmy's point.

You're right! What this forum needs is more GIFs and homosexual innuendo and less literary nonsense. Let's ban Curious Hair and Dave in Champaign and bring back Keeping Score.

You're right! What this forum needs is more GIFs and homosexual innuendo and less literary nonsense. Let's ban Curious Hair and Dave in Champaign and bring back Keeping Score.

who's more literary? michael chabon or david foster wallace? or james patterson?

product...but not necessarily...productive.

The bigger point is,did this movie need to be made?

Also,Jason Segal is a giant tool who rubs me the wrong way. He looks like the kind of guy you would catch sitting on the train touching himself.

The future holds the possibility to be great or terrible, and since it has not yet occurred it remains simultaneously both.

You jumped ahead to the last one? I mean, I won't say you can't, and it's a terrific essay, but I think the first three really set the tone for what DFW is all about in terms of both his Midwesternness and his questioning and rejection of irony.

sure beats the discussion of a severely lacking second season of a show that everybody swears sucks but continues to watch just to complain about and vainly hopes gets better.

Yeah man Wallace writes about feelings and shit, which are totally gay, also when you think about it words are gay, why does this loser sit around writing books about feelings when he could just get a bunch of people together and pay them $20 to spray fake blood on each other like Rob Zombie? You fucken homos want an artist, well I give you Rob Zombie, that guy knows whats good

You're right! What this forum needs is more GIFs and homosexual innuendo and less literary nonsense.

Im pretty hammered right now.

Well, if you say so, but I was hoping for more made up stories and name calling instead

Why don't you try logging onto Facebook for that?

I'm not a fan of Rob Zombie the musician, but I have to give credit where credit is due, "The Devil's Rejects" is a damn fine film and he'll always have that on his resume.

The future holds the possibility to be great or terrible, and since it has not yet occurred it remains simultaneously both.

Ive considered reading all DFW's stuff based on much of what is said about him here.

But where to begin?

Where was the woman who said she'd come. She said she would come. Erdedy thought she'd have come by now. He sat and
thought. He was in the living room. When he started waiting one window was full of yellow light and cast a shadow of light
across the floor and he was still sitting waiting as that shadow began to fade and was intersected by a brightening shadow from a
different wall's window. There was an insect on one of the steel shelves that held his audio equipment. The insect kept going in
and out of one of the holes on the girders that the shelves fit into. The insect was dark and had a shiny case. He kept looking over
at it. Once or twice he started to get up to go over closer to look at it, but he was afraid that if he came closer and saw it closer he
would kill it, and he was afraid to kill it. He did not use the phone to call the woman who'd promised to come because if he tied up
the line and if it happened to be the time when maybe she was trying to call him he was afraid she would hear the busy signal and
think him disinterested and get angry and maybe take what she'd promised him somewhere else.

She had promised to get him a fifth of a kilogram of marijuana, 200 grams of unusually good marijuana, for $1250 U.S. He
had tried to stop smoking marijuana maybe 70 or 80 times before. Before this woman knew him. She did not know he had tried to
stop. He always lasted a week, or two weeks, or maybe two days, and then he'd think and decide to have some in his home one
more last time. One last final time he'd search out someone new, someone he hadn't already told that he had to stop smoking dope
and please under no circumstances should they procure him any dope. It had to be a third party, because he'd told every dealer he
knew to cut him off. And the third party had to be someone all-new, because each time he got some he knew this time had to be
the last time, and so told them, asked them, as a favor, never to get him any more, ever. And he never asked a person again once
he'd told them this, because he was proud, and also kind, and wouldn't put anyone in that kind of contradictory position. Also he
considered himself creepy when it came to dope, and he was afraid that others would see that he was creepy about it as well. He
sat and thought and waited in an uneven X of light through two different windows. Once or twice he looked at the phone. The
insect had disappeared back into the hole in the steel girder a shelf fit into.

She'd promised to come at one certain time, and it was past that time. Finally he gave in and called her number, using just
audio, and it rang several times, and he was afraid of how much time he was taking tying up the line and he got her audio
answering device, the message had a snatch of ironic pop music and her voice and a male voice together saying we'll call you
back, and the 'we' made them sound like a couple, the man was a handsome black man who was in law school, she designed sets,
and he didn't leave a message because he didn't want her to know how much now he felt like he needed it. He had been very
casual about the whole thing. She said she knew a guy just over the river in Allston who sold high-resin dope in moderate bulk,
and he'd yawned and said well, maybe, well, hey, why not, sure, special occasion, I haven't bought any in I don't know how long.
She said he lived in a trailer and had a harelip and kept snakes and had no phone, and was basically just not what you'd call a
pleasant or attractive person at all, but the guy in Allston frequently sold dope to theater people in Cambridge, and had a devoted
following. He said he was trying to even remember when was the last time he'd bought any, it had been so long. He said he
guessed he'd have her get a decent amount, he said he'd had some friends call him in the recent past and ask if he could get them
some. He had this thing where he'd frequently say he was getting dope mostly for friends. Then if the woman didn't have it when
she said she'd have it for him and he became anxious about it he could tell the woman that it was his friends who were becoming
anxious, and he was sorry to bother the woman about something so casual but his friends were anxious and bothering him about it
and he just wanted to know what he could maybe tell them. He was caught in the middle, is how he would represent it. He could
say his friends had given him their money and were now anxious and exerting pressure, calling and bothering him. This tactic was
not possible with this woman who'd said she'd come with it because he hadn't yet given her the $1250. She would not let him. She
was well off. Her family was well off, she'd said to explain how her condominium was as nice as it was when she worked
designing sets for a Cambridge theater company that seemed to do only German plays, dark smeary sets. She didn't care much
about the money, she said she'd cover the cost herself when she got out to the Allston Spur to see whether the guy was at home in
the trailer as she was certain he would be this particular afternoon, and he could just reimburse her when she brought it to him.
This arrangement, very casual, made him anxious, so he'd been even more casual and said sure, fine, whatever. Thinking back, he
was sure he'd said whatever, which in retrospect worried him because it might have sounded as if he didn't care at all, not at all, so
little that it wouldn't matter if she forgot to get it or call, and once he'd made the decision to have marijuana in his home one more
time it mattered a lot. It mattered a lot. He'd been too casual with the woman, he should have made her take $1250 from him up
front, claiming politeness, claiming he didn't want to inconvenience her financially over something so trivial and casual. Money
created a sense of obligation, and he should have wanted the woman to feel obliged to do what she'd said, once what she'd said
she'd do had set him off inside. Once he'd been set off inside, it mattered so much that he was somehow afraid to show how much
it mattered. Once he had asked her to get it, he was committed to several courses of action.

The insect on the shelf was back. It didn't seem to do anything. It just came out of the hole in the girder onto the edge of the steel
shelf and sat there. After a while it would disappear back into the hole in the girder, and he was pretty sure it didn't do anything
in there either. He felt similar to the insect inside the girder his shelf was connected to, but was not sure just how he was similar.
Once he'd decided to own marijuana one more last time, he was committed to several courses of action. He had to modem in to the
agency and say that there was an emergency and that he was posting an e-note on a colleague's TP asking her to cover his calls for
the rest of the week because he'd be out of contact for several days due to this emergency. He had to put an audio message on his
answering device saying that starting that afternoon he was going to be unreachable for several days. He had to clean his bedroom,
because once he had dope he would not leave his bedroom except to go to the refrigerator and the bathroom, and even then the
trips would be very quick.

He had to throw out all his beer and liquor, because if he drank alcohol and smoked dope at the same time he would get dizzy and ill,
and if he had alcohol in the house he could not be relied on not to drink it once he started smoking dope. He'd had to do some
shopping. He'd had to lay in supplies. Now just one of the insect's antennae was protruding from the hole in the girder. It
protruded, but it did not move. He had had to buy soda, Oreos, bread, sandwich meat, mayonnaise, tomatoes, M&M's, Almost
Home cookies, ice cream, a Pepperidge Farm frozen chocolate cake, and four cans of canned chocolate frosting to be eaten with a
large spoon. He'd had to log an order to rent film cartridges from the Inter-Lace entertainment outlet. He'd had to buy antacids for
the discomfort that eating all he would eat would cause him late at night. He'd had to buy a new bong, because each time he
finished what simply had to be his last bulk-quantity of marijuana he decided that that was it, he was through, he didn't even like it
anymore, this was it, no more hiding, no more imposing on his colleagues and putting different messages on his answering device
and moving his car away from his condominium and closing his windows and curtains and blinds and living in quick vectors
between his bedroom's InterLace teleputer's films and his refrigerator and his toilet, and he would take the bong he'd used and
throw it away wrapped in several plastic shopping bags. His refrigerator made its own ice in little cloudy crescent blocks and he
loved it, when he had dope in his home he always drank a great deal of cold soda and ice water. His tongue almost swelled at just
the thought. He looked at the phone and the clock. He looked at the windows but not at the foliage and blacktop driveway beyond
the windows. He had already vacuumed his Venetian blinds and curtains, everything was ready to be shut down. Once the woman
who said she'd come had come, he would shut the whole system down. It occurred to him that he would disappear into a hole in a
girder inside him that supported something else inside him. He was unsure what the thing inside him was and was unprepared to
commit himself to the course of action that would be required to explore the question. It was now almost three hours past the time
when the woman had said she would come. A counselor, Randi, with an i, with a mustache like a Mountie, had told him in the
outpatient treatment program he'd gone through two years ago that he seemed insufficiently committed to the course of action that
would be required to remove substances from his lifestyle. He'd had to buy a new bong at Bogart's in Porter Square, Cambridge
because whenever he finished the last of the substances on hand he always threw out all his bongs and pipes, screens and tubes
and rolling papers and roach clips, lighters and Visine and Pepto-Bismol and cookies and frosting, to eliminate all future
temptation. He always felt a sense of optimism and firm resolve after he'd discarded the materials.

He'd bought the new bong and laid in fresh supplies this morning, getting back home with everything well before the woman had said she would come. He
thought of the new bong and new little packet of round brass screens in the Bogart's bag on his kitchen table in the sunlit kitchen
and could not remember what color this new bong was. The last one had been orange, the one before that a dusky rose color that
had turned muddy at the bottom from resin in just four days. He could not remember the color of this new last and final bong. He
considered getting up to check the color of the bong he'd be using but decided that obsessive checking and convulsive movements
could compromise the atmosphere of casual calm he needed to maintain while he waited, protruding but not moving, for the
woman he'd met at a design session for his agency's small campaign for her small theater company's new Wedekind festival, while
he waited for this woman, with whom he'd had intercourse twice, to honor her casual promise. He tried to decide whether the
woman was pretty. Another thing he laid in when he'd committed himself to one last marijuana vacation was petroleum jelly.
When he smoked marijuana he tended to masturbate a great deal, whether or not there were opportunities for intercourse, opting
when he smoked for masturbation over intercourse, and the petroleum jelly kept him from returning to normal function all tender
and sore. He was also hesitant to get up and check the color of his bong because he would have to pass right by the telephone
console to get to the kitchen, and he didn't want to be tempted to call the woman who'd said she would come again because he felt
creepy about bothering her about something he'd represented as so casual, and was afraid that several audio hang-ups on her
answering device would look even creepier, and also he felt anxious about maybe tying up the line at just the moment when she
called, as she certainly would. He decided to get Call Waiting added to his audio phone service for a nominal extra charge, then
remembered that since this was positively the last time he would or even could indulge what Randi, with an i, had called an
addiction every bit as rapacious as pure alcoholism, there would be no real need for Call Waiting, since a situation like the present
one could never arise again. This line of thinking almost caused him to become angry.

To ensure the composure with which he sat
waiting in light in his chair he focused his senses on his surroundings. No part of the insect he'd seen was now visible. The clicks
of his portable clock were really composed of three smaller clicks, signifying he supposed preparation, movement, and
readjustment. He began to grow disgusted with himself for waiting so anxiously for the promised arrival of something that had
stopped being fun anyway. He didn't even know why he liked it anymore. It made his mouth dry and his eyes dry and red and his
face sag, and he hated it when his face sagged, it was as if all the integrity of all the muscles in his face was eroded by marijuana,
and he got terribly self-conscious about the fact that his face was sagging, and had long ago forbidden himself to smoke dope
around anyone else. He didn't even know what its draw was anymore. He couldn't even be around anyone else if he'd smoked
marijuana that same day, it made him so self-conscious. And the dope often gave him a painful case of pleurisy if he smoked it for
more than two straight days of heavy continuous smoking in front of the Inter-Lace viewer in his bedroom. It made his thoughts
jut out crazily in jagged directions and made him stare raptly like an unbright child at entertainment cartridges — when he laid in
film cartridges for a vacation with marijuana, he favored cartridges in which a lot of things blew up and crashed into each other,
which he was sure an unpleasant-fact specialist like Randi would point out had implications that were not good. He pulled his
necktie down smooth while he gathered his intellect, will, self-knowledge, and conviction and determined that when this latest
woman came as she surely would this would simply be his very last marijuana debauch. He'd simply smoke so much so fast that it
would be so unpleasant and the memory of it so repulsive that once he'd consumed it and gotten it out of his home and his life as
quickly as possible he would never want to do it again. He would make it his business to create a really bad set of debauched
associations with the stuff in his memory. The dope scared him. It made him afraid. It wasn't that he was afraid of the dope, it was
that smoking it made him afraid of everything else. It had long since stopped being a release or relief or fun. This last time, he
would smoke the whole 200 grams—120 grams cleaned, destemmed — in four days, over an ounce a day, all in tight heavy
economical one-hitters off a quality virgin bong, an incredible, insane amount per day, he'd make it a mission, treating it like a
penance and behavior-modification regimen all at once, he'd smoke his way through thirty high-grade grams a day, starting the
moment he woke up and used ice water to detach his tongue from the roof of his mouth and took an antacid — averaging out to
200 or 300 heavy bong-hits per day, an insane and deliberately unpleasant amount, and he'd make it a mission to smoke it continu-
ously, even though if the marijuana was as good as the woman claimed he'd do five hits and then not want to take the trouble to
load and one-hit any more for at least an hour. But he would force himself to do it anyway. He would smoke it all even if he didn't
want it. Even if it started to make him dizzy and ill. He would use discipline and persistence and will and make the whole
experience so unpleasant, so debased and debauched and unpleasant, that his behavior would be henceforward modified, he'd
never even want to do it again because the memory of the insane four days to come would be so firmly, terribly emblazoned in his
memory. He'd cure himself by excess. He predicted that the woman, when she came, might want to smoke some of the 200 grams
with him, hang out, hole up, listen to some of his impressive collection of Tito Puente recordings, and probably have intercourse.
He had never once had actual intercourse on marijuana. Frankly, the idea repelled him. Two dry mouths bumping at each other,
trying to kiss, his self conscious thoughts twisting around on themselves like a snake on a stick while he bucked and snorted dryly
above her, his swollen eyes red and his face sagging so that its slack folds maybe touched, limply, the folds of her own loose
sagging face is it sloshed back and forth on his pillow, its mouth working dryly. The thought was repellent. He decided he'd have
her toss him what she'd promised to bring, and then would from a distance toss back to her the $1250 U.S. in large bills and tell
her not to let the door hit her on the butt on the way out. He'd say ass instead of butt. He'd be so rude and unpleasant to her that the
memory of his lack of basic decency and of her tight offended face would be a further disincentive ever, in the future, to risk
calling her and repeating the course of action he had now committed himself to.

He had never been so anxious for the arrival of a woman he did not want to see. He remembered clearly the last woman he'd
involved in his trying just one more vacation with dope and drawn blinds. The last woman had been something called an
appropriation artist, which seemed to mean that she copied and embellished other art and then sold it through a prestigious
Marlborough Street gallery. She had an artistic manifesto that involved radical feminist themes. He'd let her give him one of her
smaller paintings, which covered half the wall over his bed and was of a famous film actress whose name he always had a hard
time recalling and a less famous film actor, the two of them entwined in a scene from a well-known old film, a romantic scene, an
embrace, copied from a film history textbook and much enlarged and made stilted, and with obscenities scrawled all over it in
bright red letters. The last woman had been sexy but not pretty, as the woman he now didn't want to see but was waiting anxiously
for was pretty in a faded withered Cambridge way that made her seem pretty but not sexy. The appropriation artist had been led to
believe that he was a former speed addict, intravenous addiction to methamphetamine hydrochloride1 is what he remembered
telling that one, he had even described the awful taste of hydro-chloride in the addict's mouth immediately after injection, he had
researched the subject carefully. She had been further led to believe that marijuana kept him from using the drug with which he
really had a problem, and so that if he seemed anxious to get some once she'd offered to get him some it was only because he was
heroically holding out against much darker deeper more addictive urges and he needed her to help him. He couldn't quite
remember when or how she'd been given all these impressions. He had not sat down and outright bold-faced lied to her, it had
been more of an impression he'd conveyed and nurtured and allowed to gather its own life and force.

The insect was now entirely
visible. It was on the shelf that held his digital equalizer. The insect might never actually have retreated all the way back into the
hole in the shelf's girder. What looked like its reemergence might just have been a change in his attention or the two windows'
light or the visual context of his surroundings. The girder protruded from the wall and was a triangle of dull steel with holes for
shelves to fit into. The metal shelves that held his audio equipment were painted a dark industrial green and were originally made
for holding canned goods. They were designed to be extra kitchen shelves. The insect sat inside its dark shiny case with an
immobility that seemed like the gathering of a force, it sat like the hull of a vehicle from which the engine had been for the
moment removed. It was dark and had a shiny case and antennae that protruded but did not move. He had to use the bathroom. His
last piece of contact from the appropriation artist, with whom he had had intercourse, and who during intercourse had sprayed
some sort of perfume up into the air from a mister she held in her left hand as she lay beneath him making a wide variety of
sounds and spraying perfume up into the air, so that he felt the cold mist of it settling on his back and shoulders and was chilled
and repelled, his last piece of contact after he'd gone into hiding with the marijuana she'd gotten for him had been a card she'd
mailed that was a pastiche photo of a doormat of coarse green plastic grass with WELCOME on it and next to it a flattering
publicity photo of the appropriation artist from her Back Bay gallery, and between them an unequal sign, which was an equal sign
with a diagonal slash across it, and also an obscenity he had assumed was directed at him magisculed in red grease pencil along
the bottom, with multiple exclamation points. She had been offended because he had seen her every day for ten days, then when
she'd finally obtained 50 grams of genetically enhanced hydroponic marijuana for him he had said that she'd saved his life and he
was grateful and the friends for whom he'd promised to get some were grateful and she had to go right now because he had an
appointment and had to take off, but that he would doubtless be calling her later that day, and they had shared a moist kiss, and
she had said she could feel his heart pounding right through his suit coat, and she had driven away in her rusty unmuffled car, and
he had gone and moved his own car to an underground garage several blocks away, and had run back and drawn the clean blinds
and curtains, and changed the audio message on his answering device to one that described an emergency departure from town,
and had drawn and locked his bedroom blinds, and had taken the new rose-colored bong out of its Bogart's bag, and was not seen
for three days, and ignored over two dozen audio messages and protocols and e-notes expressing concern over his message's
emergency, and had never contacted her again. He had hoped she would assume he had succumbed again to methamphetamine
hydrochloride and was sparing her the agony of his descent back into the hell of chemical dependence. What it really was was that
he had again decided those 50 grams of resin-soaked dope, which had been so potent that on the second day it had given him an
anxiety attack so paralyzing that he had gone to the bathroom in a Tufts University commemorative ceramic stein to avoid leaving
his bedroom, represented his very last debauch ever with dope, and that he had to cut himself off from all possible future sources
of temptation and supply, and this surely included the appropriation artist, who had come with the stuff at precisely the time she'd
promised, he recalled. From the street outside came the sound of a dumpster being emptied into an E.W.D. land barge.

His shame
at what she might on the other hand perceive as his slimy phallocentric conduct toward her made it easier for him to avoid her, as
well. Though not shame, really. More like being uncomfortable at the thought of it. He had had to launder his bedding twice to get
the smell of the perfume out. He went into the bathroom to use the bathroom, making it a point to look neither at the insect visible
on the shelf to his left nor at the telephone console on its lacquer workstation to the right. He was committed to touching neither.
Where was the woman who had said she'd come. The new bong in the Bogart's bag was orange, meaning he might have
misremembered the bong before it as orange. It was a rich autumnal orange that lightened to more of a citrus orange when its
plastic cylinder was held up to the late-afternoon light of the window over the kitchen sink. The metal of its stem and bowl was
rough stainless steel, the kind with a grain, unpretty and all business. The bong was half a meter tall and had a weighted base
covered in soft false suede. Its orange plastic was thick and the carb on the side opposite the stem had been raggedly cut so that
rough shards of plastic protruded from the little hole and might well hurt his thumb when he smoked, which he decided to
consider just part of the penance he would undertake after the woman had come and gone. He left the door to the bathroom open
so that he would be sure to hear the telephone when it sounded or the buzzer to the front doors of his condominium complex when
it sounded. In the bathroom his throat suddenly closed and he wept hard for two or three seconds before the weeping stopped
abruptly and he could not get it to start again. It was now over four hours since the time the woman had casually committed to
come. Was he in the bathroom or in his chair near the window and near his telephone console and the insect and the window that
had admitted a straight rectangular bar of light when he began to wait. The light through this window was coming at an angle
more and more oblique. Its shadow had become a parallelogram. The light through the southwest window was straight and
reddening. He had thought he needed to use the bathroom but was unable to. He tried putting a whole stack of film cartridges into
the dock of the disc-drive and then turning on the huge teleputer in his bedroom. He could see the piece of appropriation art in the
mirror above the TP. He lowered the volume all the way and pointed the remote device at the TP like some sort of weapon. He sat
on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees and scanned the stack of cartridges. Each cartridge in the dock dropped on
command and began to engage the drive with an insectile click and whir, and he scanned it. But he was unable to distract himself
with the TP because he was unable to stay with any one entertainment cartridge for more than a few seconds. The moment he
recognized what exactly was on one cartridge he had a strong anxious feeling that there was something more entertaining on
another cartridge and that he was potentially missing it. He realized that he would have plenty of time to enjoy all the cartridges,
and realized intellectually that the feeling of deprived panic over missing something made no sense. The viewer hung on the wall,
half again as large as the piece of feminist art. He scanned cartridges for some time. The telephone console sounded during this
interval of anxious scanning. He was up and moving back out toward it before the first ring was completed, flooded with either
excitement or relief, the TP's remote device still in his hand, but it was only a friend and colleague calling, and when he heard the
voice that was not the woman who had promised to bring what he'd committed the next several days to banishing from his life
forever he was almost sick with disappointment, with a great deal of mistaken adrenaline now shining and ringing in his system,
and he got off the line with the colleague to clear the line and keep it available for the woman so fast that he was sure his
colleague perceived him as either angry with him or just plain rude. He was further upset at the thought that his answering the
telephone this late in the day did not jibe with the emergency message about being unreachable that would be on his answering
device if the colleague called back after the woman had come and gone and he'd shut the whole system of his life down, and he
was standing over the telephone console trying to decide whether the risk of the colleague or someone else from the agency
calling back was sufficient to justify changing the audio message on the answering device to describe an emergency departure this
evening instead of this afternoon, but he decided he felt that since the woman had definitely committed to coming, his leaving the
message unchanged would be a gesture of fidelity to her commitment, and might somehow in some oblique way strengthen that
commitment. The E.W.D. land barge was emptying dumpsters all up and down the street. He returned to his chair near the
window. The disk drive and TP viewer were still on in his bedroom and he could see through the angle of the bedroom's doorway
the lights from the high-definition screen blink and shift from one primary color to another in the dim room, and for a while he
killed time casually by trying to imagine what entertaining scenes on the unwatched viewer the changing colors and intensities
might signify. The chair faced the room instead of the window. Reading while waiting for marijuana was out of the question. He
considered masturbating but did not. He didn't reject the idea so much as not react to it and watch as it floated away. He thought
very broadly of desires and ideas being watched but not acted upon, he thought of impulses being starved of expression and drying
out and floating dryly away, and felt on some level that this had something to do with him and his circumstances and what, if this
grueling final debauch he'd committed himself to didn't somehow resolve the problem, would surely have to be called his
problem, but he could not even begin to try to see how the image of desiccated impulses floating dryly related to either him or the
insect, which had retreated back into its hole in the angled girder, because at this precise time his telephone and his intercom to the
front door's buzzer both sounded at the same time, both loud and tortured and so abrupt they sounded yanked through a very small
hole into the great balloon of colored silence he sat in, waiting, and he moved first toward the telephone console, then over toward
his intercom module, then convulsively back toward the sounding phone, and then tried somehow to move toward both at once,
finally, so that he stood splay-legged, arms wildly out as if something's been flung, splayed, entombed between the two sounds,
without a thought in his head.