Ben and Logan, outside the confines of the leg-humpy nights at Tumans, well, really, it's the best dancing time in town and yes, there will be dancehall. Not to shit on their Tumans nights, but it makes me feel like I'm at the end of a wedding reception that's gone on too long, with shiffaced girls in polyblends tossing half a Mudslide on to you as they run to the dancefloor for their fave Beyonce song. It's got nothing to do with Gutterbutter and everything to do with that the chicks that work at my bank like to do on the weekend.
Secondly, do you ever wonder what contemporary literature would be like if Philip Roth's boner issues never came along? Like if you took him, Updike and Cheever out of the mix entirely? Would there be such a canon of internal, male-voice writing? Would that dominant strain had another catalyst?
I wonder, I do. I could give a fuck about Portnoy's Complaint, Rabbit I like him alright and Cheever's a bum out, but I kind of love him, inspite (and for) all the sauced bougie scenes where divorce is the worst thing that comes to pass.