Bless you, blogger! My archives are back. I am so pleased.

I have much to discuss. The movie American Splendor. And a possible exploration of connection with Capturing the Friedmans.

Also, despite all the enormous hype I recently read and detested Dave Eggers' AHWOSG. Left me cold. I resent the fact that he has been dubbed the speaker for my generation. And now his asshole is twitching with the lipsmacking felching of mainstream literary co-option. "Oh, we embraced this 'new' 'young' 'vastly hip' writer all along." Witness his fucking New Yorker fiction piece this week. And the fawning article about his Middlebury- and Columbia -educated wife in the SF Chronicle. Whatever. All the fatuous drivel about McSweeneys and The Believer just infuriates me. Like my friend Tommy said, "He seems like the type of guy I should like, but I just don't." Self-coronated spoiled rich kids. No real depth or exploration of the 90s. Just surface, just surface. Using the language, leeching the concept of "meta-" to minor trifling with Nabakovian literary tricks. Hardly even dipping into the radical chaos/truth/destruction of the time period -- the death throes of the 20th century. Self-absorbed skimmer. Mere enforcer of the status-quo. Dressed up to look edgy. Grrr. Much to criticize, have I.

Goddamnit -- if he gets the title of the Great American Gen-X Novelist...

In true post-90s self-aware cutesiness, I acknowledge that my rant is, of course, stimulated by intense jealousy and unhealthy covetousness. Also, I seek to lay blame for my everpresent writing-related depression elsewhere. Anywhere, but on myself, which, of course, only lends to more everpresent self-directed depression.

In three short words, Fuck Dave Eggers.