No, that's not George Washington. It's Arthur Schopenhauer. And he wants to tell you a few things, like reason is a servant of your baser instincts; your individual existence means nothing because it merges into the existence of your species; your species doesn't mean much because it merges into life writ large and LIFE itself is only an expression of blind, groping WILL.

He also hates opera. I bet he'd even hate J.J. Who could hate J.J.?



When I started this book on Christmas Eve, it dawned on me that 2010 was a banner year in my deterioration: what hair remains on my head went grey, I mailed Christmas presents to the wrong address, when I watched the A Christmas Story marathon I wondered which members of the cast have died as opposed to merely acted in porn, I let pass the opportunity to punch a childhood friend in the face I didn't much like as a child and like even less as an adult, my gangsta rap album didn't drop, I'm probably never going to be an astronaut, Pam Grier circa 1974 still hasn't called, my screenplay Robot Bigfoot was rejected by the SyFy Channel and, worst of all, I'm not very impressed by cleverness anymore; in particular, the abbreviated and lame cleverness of this review. So I'm going to end it here and move on to some more cheerful reading.
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