Kurt Gottschalk > Recent Status Updates

That same afternoon, he came across a guide book to Switzerland at a second-hand shop, distracting him from further reading. He noticed also that he could no longer recall the source of his frustration with the book here under review.

He discovered that the abundance of clingfilm is, indeed, explained.

At some point, he set the book aside. He'd remember it and then he'd forget it again. He blamed busyness, he blamed the pandemic. The truth of the matter was that while he remained willing to uphold Roy Orbison in Clingfilm as ranking alongside Letters to Wendy's as being among the greatest works of literature in the English language, he had just grown bored. Some plot device had set him off and he wandered away.

I was really loving this book but now I am really loving it.

Have you ever heard a joke that just keeps getting funnier and funnier the longer it goes on until all of a sudden it isn't a joke at all? I hadn't either.

Quelle horreur!

What is this? Forces collide as if the third act of an opera by Giuseppe Verdi and yet I am barely past the halfway point (if one counts by the printed pages, ignoring the blank endpages which no one reads for there's nothing there, although Goodreads includes them in the page count). Is it a faked climax or an embarrassment of form? I can barely stand waiting to see what the next two dozen weeks will bring!

I do not know whether to cheer or lament this emergence of what seems to be an actual plot. As it is my birthday, however, I shall elect for both options.

The protocol of reading one chapter per week was established at a time when there were distinct days.

It strikes me that living in cities has robbed me of good reading habits. I used to sit home and read, but when I moved to Chicago, my commuting time became my reading time. Now I am confined to this apartment but I do not read books. I read Facebook posts and watch YouTube videos. The internet shall make idiots of us all.

SPOILER ALERT: There is now a subplot.

But I cannot help but ask, what is it the Haarbürste is up to? What does he think he is doing. We are in the midst of a global pandemic and he has nothing better to do than write story after story about wrapping a pop star who, great as some of his songs were, doesn't truly rank among the ranks of the greats of rock and roll in Saran Wrap? I find it questionable.

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

And what of my own writing? Oh, sure, I routinely publish passably crafted hyperbole about the current musical sensations of the intellectual underground, but what of my own farce and whimsy? Do I find, or, rather, make time for that anymore? No! But does Goodreads care? Not a whit! Goodreads won't even allow me to recommend my own books! But this ludicrous volume? Sure, I recommend it. Why not?

I read Chapter 20 right after reading what seemed a fairly levelheaded precaution about COVID-19 and now I'm all freaked out.  

and anyway, all Goodreads is good for is exhibiting my bad reading habits. I used to be so disciplined, one fiction and one nonfiction, generally reading the nonfiction before noon and the fiction later in the day. Now I can't even remember all the books I've started and intend to finish, and I guess Goodreads is good for helping keep track but really I just need to try harder. It's shameful, but here I am.

I hate the breaking of the fourth wall. I mean, it was exciting when I was young and first discovered Brecht, but that was 90 years ago. I will admit there has been a bit of charm to Herr Haarbürste's repeated addresses to the reader but now he has gone too far!

And yet I have greater concerns. Why is it that I continue to advertise my poor reading habits to anyone who might use this site?