I can’t let go of the idea that I should have a “what I’m reading list.” It doesn’t matter that I’m not reading anything except George Carlin’s list of things you can’t say on TV (who knew?), I should have one anywway. I’d fake it, but what if I get caught out? I’d put things there like the Fourfold Root of the Principle of Insufficient Reasons, Anna Karrawhatshername and Dante’s Big Fucking Blaze and before you know it some fucking peedant would be onto me. Maybe I should have a “what I’m staring blankly at when I should be asleep” list. It would go like this: War Photographer. Joel-Peter Witkin’s snaps of oddly rearranged corpses to make me feel better about Natchwey’s starving Africans. A bit of Diane Arbus to keep me awake. William Eggleston to put me to sleep again.

I was supposed to go to a talk about bio-fuels today. Sounded exciting: 3 Mexican agro-economists telling 14 Canadians with beards and mountain bikes what they already know and nobody else gives a shit about (starvation, riots etc etc). I said “fine, I’ll come down and take a few shots of the cops.” Hmmm. Blank look. Seems the cops don’t bother to show up for these things like they do in other countries. So I went for ten minutes and then went next to over to the hospital next door to shoot pictures of the crematorium in the sunset.