It is more exercise than I’ve had in months. With the help of our new editorial assistant, Jordan, we cart all forty-something boxes up Kiara’s stairs.
#Painted melting clocks driver
When the truck materializes, we watch the driver unload the skid and build a makeshift plywood ramp to wheel it up to the sidewalk.
I pull on some shorts and do my best approximation of a sprint. I haven’t even gotten out of bed.įinally our printer manages to get in touch with their FedEx rep, and we’re told the issues have been successfully rerouted to my coeditor, Kiara, and will arrive at her apartment in fifteen minutes. Not that what I’m doing now is particularly “cultural”: I’m telling the automated system I’d like to “speak to a representative … speak to a representative ,” getting transferred to incorrect extensions, hanging up, and dialing the line again. While I’m on hold with FedEx I receive an email asking me to write a culture diary for this website, and I decide to start right away-no cherry-picking. Early on it draws a dichotomy between history and theology that I’ve been mulling over since I encountered it. It’s mostly a satire based on an anecdote told to Cohen by the late literary critic Harold Bloom, but it’s also pointedly presentist, a self-conscious parable for liberalism in the Trump years. I got through most of The Netanyahus in a single sitting last summer, before I’d met its author. Kicking myself for how late I stayed out last night-there was a party at Russian Samovar for Joshua Cohen, whose novel The Netanyahus won this year’s Pulitzer in fiction-I dial FedEx and shoot an email to our printer. Evidently it’s early … and sleeping in was a potentially multithousand-dollar mistake. The delivery in question is Issue Seven of The Drift, the magazine I cofounded and co-run, and it was supposed to arrive next Monday or Tuesday in time for our launch party Thursday at the Public Hotel. I wake up to three missed calls and matching voice mails from a blocked number that turns out to be FedEx Express Heavyweight informing me that since I was not around to receive my thousand-pound skid, it’s on its way to JFK. The Drift launch party on the rooftop at the Public Hotel.
0 kommentar(er)
