I was going to write on Waking Life, to counterbalance Tyler’s review of Inception, but Inception is fun and Waking Life is not and I just couldn’t sit through it again. Elitist Professor recommended it to me years ago; I sat through it with diligence and focus and boredom and nausea. I formed a resolution in my heart never to learn the how-to’s of lucid dreaming. Then, that night, I dreamt that I woke up and went to the bathroom three times before I actually woke up and went to the bathroom. Or did I? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did. I heart reality. I’m an accountant that way: ever since I was a kid, I’ve liked having one interpretation of the world. It doesn’t hold up, of course, especially after courses in literary theory, but I’m such a square that I’ve been remarkably good at ignoring all I’ve read. Jacob’s Ladder is even worse than my most horrible nightmares. Pollock is about on a level with them. Because I feel very strongly about rock-solid reality, I approve of representational art and am much less fond of modern art. The vagueness bothers me. “Well, this can be titled ‘Ode to
