Spirometry or Cornmeal

"Why we are mired in this virtually unsolvable problem is the reason I wrote this book."-- David Stockman

Paul Krugman's oblique critique of conservative alarm is patently ridiculous. Economics, sciences, humanities, health, physics, literary endeavor, agriculture, demographics, third rate quality controls which have decreased population pressures a billionth of a percent, none of these are divorced from each other. This relates to Ulysses hostilities. As superlative and versatile as Joyce proves to be, and as indebted post modernists of the future are to the man of schizoaffective verisimilitude, James Joyce evades a great deal of responsibility with his "damned masterpiece," to corrupt one of his complaints about his novel, and channel Mads Mikkelsen as a derivative virtuoso. Other authors beholden to the modernist tradition do not evade their responsibility. Hermann Broch. Marcel Proust. John Gardner. Even Laurence Sterne, who is a Joycean pater familias, does not evade responsibility.

I am still in Ithaca, after having made such expenditure as I have, although my aging family made up the difference of my support for the tiny and ensconced Jewish bookseller museum of nomenclature in this provincial urban backwater that fomented the birth of the United States, but now that I am past the guidance of Lance Walhert, who has two names because he was warned to be wary of furious spastic mettle, not that my family consciously decided to underwrite my contribution to the Rosenbach-- I had a birthday, veterinary bills, and mother's side and mio padre write off their guilt. Perhaps I will finish Molly's chapter by Bloomsday, perhaps not, and if you would be happier if I focus on small positives, I like young Althena, who looks like cousin Dana, and the guy with the glasses who listened for five minutes to now significantly ill and angry invalid's tale of misery-- I need to get back to my own concerns, however, before I acquire the scars of lung reduction surgery. The Mayo Clinic chastises that COPD is not the end of the world.

Of course it is for those with ambition and aesthetic desire and livid hatred of brain damage and a body broken with never a chance for its own beauty over indolence. I have had a craving for cheese puffs and in indulging it, breathed better. Breathing now. So why do I not behave and be compliant and script myself on the appropriate steroid combination before a machine takes over for me? I did observe that Amy seemed delightful, didn't I?