A guy with undisclosed issues is feeling low so he wants to trade his long underwear with a man he frequently mistakes for a medicine man.

(from McSweeney’s, #16)

Well, because this is a sweet, very distinct character, one who instantly inspires curiosity and sympathy, I’m willing to forgive the fact that this is yet another story wherein idiosyncracies are simply lined up in a way that screams of forced quirkiness cache. Does that make sense? There’s this wave rushing through the ether right now and I can neither define it nor much longer appreciate it, but it’s making me want to hate things like Amelie and Garden State and Neal Pollack and The Royal Tenenbaums and that Jonathan Safran Foer book I never read. Anyway, why am I bringing this up, whatever it is, right now? Sorry. I have already forgiven this story, remember? In the morning I will wonder what the heck I was talking about. But it’s 1:41 a.m., the Phillies are heading into the 13th inning, and I am rambling.
Okay. This story has some really pretty, memorable moments (especially at the end) that elevate the whole thing. If the main character didn’t have a sister of childbearing age, I would have mistaken him for an old man. I think that’s part of the magic, that he narrates his own story and therefore never defines himself or his condition. Nice.
I saw Kevin Moffett read at Molly’s recently, and I thought he was reading from his novel, but maybe it was from this, because parts seemed a little familar.

I bought some books which contain no short stories today, from Hakim’s Bookstore in West Philly.