like a trout to small to reach the front door handle

This post is going to be all over the place. Irrelevant subject line is from an absurd mis-hearing of a Paul Weller song. You can guess what the lyric is supposed to be if you want.

Last night a close friend of my brother and sister-in-law's was in town, so I tried to play good city host. We bought specialty tea at a place in the market, went for a bite, then drove to a climbing gym that he, a climbing enthusiast, wanted to check out. (Although I would have otherwise been keen, we just looked around because I haven't slept that well the last few nights and was feeling very tired, plus it was quite late.) Then we went to his hotel where we were going to sit in the hot tub and chat but it was broken, so we went for a swim in the pool and tried for 25 minutes or so to stand on a stack of kickboards underwater. We also wore Cookie Monster water wings some kid left behind. They made kind of nice slippers.

Not much else to say. I guess it's time for another edition of "books on the back of my toilet".

Since my specialty seems to be mixing the base (going potty) with the sublime (excellent reading material), this week we have:

A Good War is Hard to Find by David Griffith - I'm not Catholic but I'll dig a good spiritually-tinged cultural analysis of the pornography of war anytime.
City of Words by Alberto Manguel - pulls in a mix of things including the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Tower of Babel, Kafka, and Atanarjuat the Fast Runner. How could you not want to just rub yourself all over this book?*

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*By "yourself", I mean your big throbbing brain, okay pervert?