The Asshole of The Month Award goes to: Lady who lives at 2374 Filbert Street in San Francisco Marina district.
|You are an ASSHOLE!|
This woman finger waved at me when I got out to move her cans. A tall, white woman finger waved like she was some sassy black lady. Lady, you have a garage! If you want to save a spot for your husband move your car out of the garage and put it where these stupid cans are.
To repeat. Lady, I was being nice. I drove on. Not because you weren't in the wrong, but because I chose to let the next person who thinks this is fucked up take care of it.
Our local tech guy getting off a red eye flight from China isn't going to give a fuck about your cans. Even as you finger wave he'll gladly throw them into your driveway to take this spot.
James Ellroy was at my store to talk about his new novel Perfidia : "So there's a lion fucking a zebra. Zebra says, "Oh shit, there's my husband. Quick, pretend you're killing me!"
|James did not disappoint!|
We were invited to ask questions like, "Why do so many women divorce you?" and "Why do you write in the time period you do?"
He answered, "I'm loyal. I'm never unfaithful, but I isolate," and "I won't write anything beyond 1973. With Hover gone and the start of Watergate, I just don't fucking care."
When asked why he writes James Ellroy said this:
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie a bed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
from the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Not for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.