Prepping for the '20 Under 40' issue
As my coffee table and I aren't having the greatest year in keeping up with The New Yorker (every week, Remnick? haven't you heard of the Internet destroying publishing revenues?), I'm clearing my mind today before reading the self-debated "20 Under 40" summer fiction issue.
First, I've just finished reading the short-story collection Things I've Learned from Women Who've Dumped Me, the birthday gift from my brother that pretty much makes up for the time when we were kids and he gave me a crossword puzzle book when he was the one who loved crossword puzzles. Rob, consider all the crosswords forgiven.
Here is my favorite passage from that book that isn't totally obscene or the last essay in the book, as I try to stay away from quoting endings. It's from Will Forte's "Beware of Math Tutors who Ride Motorcycles."
… As we got off the phone, I wondered about Steve. Was he some tattooed clubber guy? Was he on a collegiate sports team? Would a representative for a modeling agency approach him on the street and give him their card?
I walked back to the van and, in a jealous mini-rage, slammed the door hard enough to provoke a "Trouble in paradise?" comment from one of the ski teamers. Could be, ski teamer, I thought to myself. Could be.
That night, I slyly asked Michelle all about Steve. I didn't like what I heard. Apparently, Steve was a blond-haired, blue-eyed surfer. He was nice, smart and funny. But nothing scared me more than the information I found out next: Steve played bass for a popular campus band called the Brewmasters. Oh, great, a fucking musician. When pressed, Michelle admitted that she found Steve attractive, but claimed she didn't think of him in "that way." As I went on with my questions, Michelle became annoyed. Didn't I believe her? They were just friends. Steve was helping her with her studies. If anything, he should be thanked — I mean, the more solid grasp she had on her math theorems, the quicker she could do future math theorem homework, and the quick she could meet me for romantic date nights at local taco establishments.
Next, I watched Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears play Get Yo Shit.
Remnick, I'm ready. Right after breakfast. And more procrastinating.















