old sketchbook, ernie needs work, but i like him.

here's a little verbal image for you- 

LIKE A HUNGRY CHILD TRYING TO GET BEETROOT OUT OF A JAR, WEARING OVEN GLOVES.

more bear time.

my next forray into the world of words. i know that it ends with a man resigning himself to live out the rest of his life in an underground basement room in new your in which an entire wall is covered by lightbulbs and listening to louis armstrong at a deafening level. 

i'll let you know.

just finished this book. it's pretty good. won the booker prize in '91. my god it gets annoying, it's been a real pain. last couple of chapters he gets so post modern he can't even see the last bleeding sentence he wrote. and look at him!!! the word that springs to mind is squinty. somehow he just doesn't carry it off the same as thom york. 

saying this, i've never won the booker prize, and he's evidently a very clever man, and the reason i got so peeved at the last chapters were because i'd willingly and happily trundled through the rest of it. so maybe i'm the arse. who knows.