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Sam Nixon

I took a break from the standard forms of nerding out these last two weeks and did some reading instead.


Not the big backlog of classics that everyone has collecting dust on a shelf next to some media-dispensing screen so as to supposedly provide a direct line of literary access should the sixth viewing of the 1966 "Batman" movie suddenly register as maybe not quite the best way to spend a Friday night but which is effectively more of a low-level and persistent method of self-shaming that flows through the presence of a different but slightly more effort-intensive form of entertainment that could potentially, MAYBE, be partaken in when other avenues of more passive self-satisfaction are exhausted (and now that I think of it, is more or less the exact sort of trap I fell into as the only real reason I was even spurred on to take this media break in the first place was a misplaced power cord that left my Playstation dead in the water, and I'm sure that once I do eventually find the right damn cable with the two rounded ends on the dongle and get it set up again the first thing it's going to do upon reboot is berate me for not turning it off properly like it's some kind of precious armament that needs to be deactivated in a precise order or else civilization as we know it could be rendered kaput), as my particular stack of "literature" has by now had most of the title covers more or less eaten away by the cat in this particularly annoying late-night ritual where in lieu of scratching at the door to get out he instead locates and slowly and loudly shreds any and all paper-based things left on flat surfaces where these items usually accrue like coffee tables and nightstands and yes, bookshelves, and anyway even if the pages weren't all pockmarked with little incisor-shaped holes they already go into the Gom Jabbar and the "fear is the little death" spiel in like the first 30 pages of "Dune" as it is, so finishing that book would really just be a search to see when the goddamn sandworms finally appear and if Duncan Idaho is a character really worthy of all that fanfiction I stumbled across online while looking up all the past David Lynch flicks after reading that a BBC poll of critics had bestowed "Mulholland Drive" the title of best movie of the 21st century, which didn't sit too well with me for a minute because I didn't recall making it all the way through that movie last time I watched it but then remembered that I had put it on during a first date without considering the other party's taste in movies and right around the diner scene where that creepy dumpster witch pops out I realized that this was probably not the best move on my part and switched over to something more innocuous (I think it was "Shakespeare in Love," but now I'm really hoping it wasn't as leading with something that hokily romantic seems pretty desperate and cloying in retrospect and I'll have to remember to work on that), and anyway I'd started and stopped that book like three times already so revisiting it now would almost certainly lead to the persistently nagging thought of "I think I remember this, I must have made it this far last time" distracting me from the actual story and probably the sandworms, too, if I were to make it that far, which was unlikely.

So instead I read "The Nix" by Nathan Hill, who tends to use long sentences.

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