Haven't blogged about ultimate in a while, but I can't imagine a better game than Saturday. Playing with only one sub for the duration of the game, we were down by three at the half, then went on a run and outscored the opponents ten to one. Afterwards my endorphins turned into dolphins doing the backstroke in my brain. In a pleasant daze for the rest of the daylight hours I finished Jean Echenoz's detective novel Big Blondes--my first time with his work. I was reminded of Colson Whitehead if only more global: a topsy-turvy picture of the world (Paris, Normandy, Australia, and Bombay) and a desultory narrative that frequently slides into pop culture critique. Glorie, the elusive blonde, is aided along the way by a sardonic homunculus whose magical presence is left without explanation. Also on Saturday I read Grenier's Dusk Road Games, ate tempura fried squid & scallops, and watched half of Capote. Sunday I read the opening chapters in Angus Fletcher's A New Theory of American Poetry (2004), relocated a patch of perennials that had meandered out of the natural area, attended the Corcoran All Stars hosted by Doug Lang, noted CE saying my hair is turning salt & pepper, and started Edmund Crispen's The Movie Toy Shop (about a literature professor turned gumshoe). So there: a blog entry in diary mode. Then Frank O'Hara says, "I wonder if I've really scrutinized this experience like / you're supposed to have if you can type..."

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