part 2

Part 2 of this semester, that is. Spring break lethargy continues to operate, and I find myself almost unwilling to go to class tomorrow. Or, for that matter, to deal with Garp, as I've decided to call my dimwitted project partner. The origin of that epithet will become plain in a minute. No sooner did I land in Atlanta than I found myself on the receiving end of a series of questions from Garp pertaining to the project, each of which could be answered by a simple Google search. How that waste of oxygen ever made it out of the womb, let alone all the way to grad school, remains a a mystery. It's a pity birth control wasn't more common twenty years ago, or I'm willing to bet it would have been used to great effect in the bedchamber of Garp's would-be parents as they lay sipping on cheap alcohol on an otherwise happy evening - say, Diwali - contemplating things that they would regret almost instantly. I'm curious to know whether Garp's dimwittedness came from his mother's side or his father's, or whether it was the result of his mother consuming too much alcohol while Garp was still but a fetus. In all honesty, I'm sure Garp isn't stupid. There's no way someone stupid could have made it to G. T. or landed an internship at Qualcomm. But Garp's intellectual indolence is so advanced, so sophisticated, that it renders him hardly more than a vegetable.*

As to the origin of the name Garp, I'm sure anyone passably acquainted with this particular sound knows that it's from John Irving's book The World According to Garp. I picked it up at an airport bookstore on the way back, because it appeared to be the most respectable book on display. I hasten to add that I did pay for it, though I'm still debating whether I was well advised to do so. John Irving's language is exquisite. It's a pity he has an unwholesome obsession with sex. Even were he not such a famous writer, I'm sure his name would be immortalized in sex offender registries all over the country. I'm not a prude by any means, and I can even sit through a Jeffrey Archer sex scene while cringing only slightly, but John Irving is a whole 'nother level of perversity. He is perverse. I'm sorry for sounding so puritanical, but there's really no other way to describe it. I don't think I've ever felt queasy while reading a book, even when I've read books in cars navigating a series of hairpin bends, but this particular book very nearly succeeded at making me taste bile in parts. I will say, though, that it's an engaging book, if you ignore its perverse treatment of sex. The characterization is surprisingly strong. John Irving's lofty, quasi-sardonic language is such that you would ordinarily expect his characters to be painted with a uniform stroke of sarcasm and reduced either to caricatures or to neurotics as a result. Somehow this doesn't occur.

Sadly, I think I will only be able to continue reading this or any other book on the journey back home at the end of the semester. In the meantime, the OS project is due a day earlier than I thought, and I can already hear ASB caterwauling from my future nightmares. Not to mention work at the lab has been steadily piling up over the last week. It is at times like this that one wishes one were a genie.

*Disclaimer: I have a well-known tendency to depart from facts when in the grip of intense emotion. Make of that what you will.