I just read Vladimir Nabokov's "The Real Life of Sebastian Knight". I can't believe I haven't read it until now; I agree with the critic michael dirda's assertion that "questions lie at the heart of nabakovian fiction, a fiction full of ambiguity, traps for the unwary, camoflaged clues, tongue-in cheek parody, and dizzying paradoxes". This was his first novel written in English. With Nabakov, nothing is ever as it first appears, but what really kills me is the beauty of his language: "possibly underappreciated, are the novel's atmospheric vignettes: scenes of old Russia, romantic Paris between the wars, rain- swept Cambridge.These imbue "The Real Life of Sebastoan Knight" with a distinct period feel, one reminiscent of so many grainy, shadowy 1930s black-and-white films".

Tonight I was let in free too see Glass Candy, Farah, Nite Jewel and more at Rotture, a bar that has good dance nights every weekend and a rad soul night on Thursdays. Next to Holoscene, it's my favourite PDx venue for dance nights.

And, next week at work, I get to start writing ad copy. I mean, it's not exactly the equivalent of publishing an essay in McSweeneys, but nonetheless, it is nice to have my boss think I'm a good writer capable of writing ads (that being said, writing ads does feel a little weird after allow those years spent supporting adbusters, but.....).

Also, I always feel a little shy about people I don't know that well reading this (and for some reason, I know people are) because I do worry that I must come off as more emotional, self- centered, and neurotic than the relatively happy and fun girl I am in real life, but.......oh well, that's what I guess happens when I update this while drinking wine all alone in my apartment late at night: even a girl as prickly as a porcupine and as impervious (impenetrable?) as.....a rain jacket ( that's so cheesy) lets her guard down and becomes a little sensitive.