Madhattan

You may have heard that early Wednesday morning, around four-thirty, the Mad Manhattan Stabber was apprehended in Times Square after sticking it to four people on the subway & in the Square, & wrecking havoc at a delicatessen. He was chased into a McDonalds where he was cornered by police. Hmm, four-thirty, that's roughly when I happened to be wandering through Times Square, taking in the glow sans daytime crowds. His final stabbings were on 47th Street. I think I walked north as far as 45th or 46th, then swerved left & headed for a diner on 9th Ave. Didn't notice any excitement in the least. For all I know I walked right past the fellow.

Today I went to the KGB bar in the East Village for a literary reading. It's an upstairs saloon decked out in red & black, its walls lined with a variety of Lenin, hammer & sickle-themed memorabilia. My favorite author was Carol Rosenfeld, who read excerpts from her lesbian romance novel satire entitled Birds Do It. Listening to all the readers made me realize I don't respond well to material that is devoid of wit. No matter how serious or bleak the subject matter, there needs to be that wry perspective somewhere as an ingredient, or else it just feels like emotional manipulation. Life includes humor & I don't trust stories that leave it out. I also realized, or was reminded, that I'm a lousy literary critic. Either a story excites me or it doesn't. Unless it's just technically incompetent, I can't distinguish between writing that's mediocre & that which just doesn't reel me in. And when I hear an audience wildly applauding a story that is lulling me to sleep, I just chalk it down to the latter. How can you be expected to form any sort of confident judgment when the simple fact of the matter is you are not the intended audience?

Stayed out the rest of the night in various bars & cafes in the Village, nearly finishing A Heartbreaking Work before dawn arrived (with those rosy fingers of hers).

Afterthought: I am amused by people who spell "genius" wrong.