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Audible Audio
First published July 29, 2025
'I thought of the lyrics to “Lithium,” or really just the part where Kurt Cobain sings, “I’m not going to crack.”'
'The wife on Ambien recites the poetry of T. S. Eliot, sings the music of the Jesus and Mary Chain, calculates how much we need to save to retire. Her figures vary. The wife on Ambien also tells me it doesn’t matter, that the sun will swallow the earth exactly eight billion years, or thirteen weeks, or twenty-four hours from now. The wife on Ambien hails Uber after Uber. The cars stream toward us like a series of sharks. It’s four a.m. Drivers from many countries gather on the corner, fling curses at our window, break out the booze, and promise each other their children in marriage. The wife on Ambien hacks into my Facebook account and leaves slurs on the pages of my enemies. Get a life, you’re a joke. She joins political causes directly opposed to her own. I spend an hour every morning cleaning up the digital trail.'
'The answer lay in the breakage. Would tomorrow’s hunt be successful? Would the rains fall soon? Was everybody really going to die? They recorded the results right on the riven tabulae, with a proliferating vocabulary of symbols: a bolt of lightning, a labyrinth’s futile curl, a vigilant eyeball, and dozens of other icons. To a degree these descriptions are Rorschach, yet one couldn’t help but see in those jottings a pitchfork, or a cat’s ears, or a horned head on a triangular body. (Indeed, the horns came up rather a lot.) Every few days we turned up a new symbol, and one of us would set to work teasing out its meaning. We tried to shed our modern sensibility, with consequently terse results. Even so, there was no guarantee that two of us would read the same line the same way.'
Page eight, a little lower down: The doctrine of transubstantiation has nothing to do with pinball.
Page nine: Solomon Eveready reappears, smoking cut-grade reefer and imitating a trout. Explain this to me. Explain also the presence of scuba gear that "reeks of melon."
The wife on Ambien recites the poetry of T. S. Eliot, sings the music of the Jesus and Mary Chain, calculates how much we need to save to retire. Her figures vary. The wife on Ambien also tells me it doesn’t matter, that the sun will swallow the earth exactly eight billion years, or thirteen weeks, or twenty-four hours from now. The wife on Ambien hails Uber after Uber. The cars stream toward us like a series of sharks. It’s four a.m. Drivers from many countries gather on the corner, fling curses at our window, break out the booze, and promise each other their children in marriage. The wife on Ambien hacks into my Facebook account and leaves slurs on the pages of my enemies. Get a life, you’re a joke. She joins political causes directly opposed to her own. I spend an hour every morning cleaning up the digital trail.3.5*
"So you know about Uncle Buck," he said.
"The movie?"
"What movie? I’m talking about your Uncle Buck. He went on that show where they give you a makeover. It was Lindy’s idea, the whole stupid TV thing. She has connections. You know Buck. He dresses worse than I do. He dresses like he smeared rubber cement on his chest and rolled around in a pile of undershirts. So they show the episode and it went a little too well, if you get my gist."