death of the crippled ballet

This morning I finished Ian McEwan on Updike and started Hilton Als on Milk while eating a lox bagel and drinking a heavily sugared coffee at Java Supreme on Guerrero and 19th Street, occasionally glancing up to watch adults stride by in the rain. I was happy. I am Jewish. Last night I found out that the next New Yorker has an article by D.T. Max about David Foster Wallace’s forthcoming unfinished novel, along with an excerpt. Back in the office, I started reading Charles McGrath on John Cheever and then saw that I had only read page one of six and so decided to write a snotty little mournful little ‘blog-post’ in order to remind myself to finish it at a time when I’m not “supposed” to be working. More stressful work dreams last night. I was on a patio in some ski resort trying frantically to train a young female designer to make a spread for me — a magazine spread, I mean, doctor, of course, ha-ha, how much time do we have left? I have to cancel next week’s appointment–while the printers waited via sattelite uplink phone for us to finish. There’s more.