I just had a rather long and exasperating evening, so I'll be brief here tonight.

Completely unrelated but a far more enjoyable topic is an item picked up from the AP today. I know there are a myriad of writing awards celebrating the art of writing--who knew that there was a category for bad sex writing in fiction? I mean, pardon the expression, but who could fuck that up? I suppose it's dependent on one's level of comfort in using sexual vernacular and romantic metaphors for body parts, acts and gestures. But it's truly genius to fumble, and badly, a written sexual scene or dialogue. I mean, that takes real skill. What surprises me is that Thomas Pynchon was among the nominees! Of course these awards have their genesis in England; for such outwardly uptight people, they are randy bastards at heart.

A segment from the AP article:

LONDON, England (AP) -- First-time author Iain Hollingshead scooped a dubious literary honor Wednesday, winning the Bad Sex in Fiction Award for his novel, "Twenty Something." Hollingshead beat established writers including Booker Prize nominee David Mitchell, best seller Mark Haddon and literary maverick Thomas Pynchon to the prize, which aims to skewer "the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel." Judges were moved by Hollingshead's evocation of "a commotion of grunts and squeaks, flashing unconnected images and explosions of a million little particles." His description of "bulging trousers" sealed the win, the judges said. [Oy!]

"Because Hollingshead is a first-time writer, we wished to discourage him from further attempts," the judges -- editors of Literary Review magazine -- said in a statement. "Heavyweights like Thomas Pynchon and Will Self are beyond help at this point." Hollingshead, 25, who received his award from rocker Courtney Love at a London ceremony, said he was delighted to become the prize's youngest winner. "I hope to win it every year," said Hollingshead, who received a statuette and a bottle of champagne.

I don't think that's a dubious achievement I would wish to replicate. Nor would I be pleased if my writing attempts in the genre of erotic literature were deemed inept, amateurish and ghastly. But credit the writer who wishes to replicate a certain standard of mediocrity on an annual basis.