My own peregrinations confined to shuffling between snow canyons splotched ochre by abstract expressionist canines, I'm living vicariously through the DC public library. Because I'm oh oh oh so busy, I've had to renew Will Self's Psycho Too to try to finish it, and then there's the giant brick of the new Patricia Highsmith bio, which is so exhaustively written and oddly structured it takes an act of will to penetrate a page. Doesn't matter; I have to know.
But Self is like listening to my self as I would be if I had a decent education and more talent. Running is my derive, not walking, and I'm deprived of my derive in recent days. So get you a copy of this book, with its fine fine Steadman illustrations, and journey if you will with Mr. Self from JG Ballard's Shepperton digs to Dubai, ending in Ibiza among a party "too old to rave, except against the dying of the light."
Back to work. I'm attempting to work to the music of a French internet radio station that specializes in 70s rock. They just played Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue followed by a bit of French movie dialogue, followed by Creedence's Penthouse Pauper, and then Disco Lady. Civilization's contents.