I have that pig disease

And yet for some reason I’m feeling like blogging again. It has something to do with re-reading Nick Hornby’s books of book reviews, and something to do with reading a whole bunch of old issues of n+1, and also the odd bit of David Foster Wallace stuff, both fiction and non-fiction, and thinking about how just about everything in the world ought to be examined more carefully, at least when so doing doesn’t completely take the fun out of it, whatever it we happen to be talking about here. Something to do with all that, but I’m not sure what exactly, because I can’t remember things, because I have that pig disease.

Wait, I remembered one thing: this New York Times Magazine profile of Rafael Nadal, which is an excellent counterpoint or counterpart or counter-something to the oft-mentioned David Foster Wallace thing about Roger Federer, the two of which in combination make me wish Nick Hornby liked tennis, and was my friend, so I could chat with him about what it’s like living during an era where basically if not the Mozart and Beethoven then at least maybe the Wagner and Schoenberg of tennis are both alive and duking it out on our television screens every couple of weeks. Maybe I would post snippets of our IM conversations so that you, dear reader, could chuckle along.

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