We’re operating on about one thruster right now to get us to O’Hare, so it’s possible we’ve taken leave of our senses. But this Laura Miller essay comparing Dale Peck and James Wood offers, to our muddled fume-impaired vision, some very compelling cases that they’re cut from the same cloth. As much as we appreciate his wares, Wood’s comment that a novel that “engages with the culture” could never be any good is about as pretentious and myopic about the novel’s future as Dale Peck’s infamous first line. We can only reply, skating dangerously close to the Julavits line: What’s wrong with ambition?

(UPDATE: Aw, fuggit. We have no brain. Stephany pretty much nails it.)

Toodle-oo until Monday.

Gawker: “[Crouch] He was overheard talking about his recent physical assault on critic Dale Peck (2nd item), saying that he ‘had the distinct feeling that if I hit him a few more times, he’d say thank you and call me his daddy.'” (via Maud)

It may seem a cop-out, but real life (namely, this weekend’s auditions) has us really busy. Expect little today and probably nothing much here until Monday.

— You are not doing enough.
— Nonsense, mofo.
— No, you are feeling the appropriate sensations.
— Of age?
— More than that, padre, but that’s part of the package.
— Yes, the twenties are a waning sun soon to depart into the ocean.
— It gets better. And so do your metaphors.
— Easier?
— No, but better. You’re going to be laughing your ass off pretty soon over this internal monologue. A few years from now. Just as your friends have been saying. Your petty musings on owning property or having a better day job. Who the hell do you think you are? You’re doing a damn good job, kiddo. You know yourself now better than most your age.
— I got carded for beer the other night.
— Only because you shaved.
— Yeah, good point.
— Now if you can just get through the next few weeks, it will be as if nothing happened.
— Just another day?
— Yeah. And what they don’t tell you is that because you make decisions on a daily basis to get to the exact place you want to be, you’re one sexy motherfucker. Robert Mitchum badass, sexy.
— These are good things.
— Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you. But you keep moping on about thumbing a lift to Minneapolis in the middle of the workweek or doing something rash. I’m not suggesting you settle down, but if you keep it up, kid, it will work out.
— But thirty? I should be someplace better.
— Listen, you ambitious sod, the economy sucks, but you’re setting things up anyway. Just deal with it.
— Okay. But can we chat when something else comes up?
— Here he goes again. Okay, but no more after the day of transmutation.
— Deal.