Just me and the boys

I just finished reading Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. Bejesus, I wish I had whatever mental illness that guy had. Not Krakauer. The other guy. Why must my mental illness banish me to a life lived completely in my head? In my head, there is no Alaskan wilderness. It's a wilderness, all right, but there is no cool abandoned bus, no truckers with fatherly advice, no canoe to Mexico, nor campsite under a vast desert sky. They've made this one into a movie. Or, as Craig would quip, "They made a book out of that movie?"

Because I believe in balance, I'm now reading The Onion's Our Dumb World. Well, reading implies absorption. With this one, I'm more into grazing and cracking up at cultural sins that truly aren't funny.

Oh, and I'm also reading Vincent Lam's Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures. Cool idea. I'm learning that human relationships are best translated while dissecting a tattooed corpse to pass the first year of medical school. Where do I sign, to be either corpse or student?