I could not put down Diaz’s story in this week’s New Yorker (it’s interesting that they print all the foul language, given John McPhee’s recent article on previous NYer editors who wouldn’t permit). I love how Diaz writes in the second person.
“Elvis encourages you to try yoga, the half-Bikram kind they teach in Central Square. Mad fucking hos in there, he says. I’m talking hos by the ton. While you’re not exactly feeling the hos right now, you don’t want to lose all the conditioning you’ve built up, so you give it a shot. The namaste bullshit you could do without, but you fall into it and soon you’re pulling vinyasas with the best of them. Elvis was certainly right. There are mad hos, all with their asses in the ai, but none of them catches your eye. One miniature blanquita does try to chat you up. She seems impressed that, of all the guys in the class, you alone never take off your shirt, but you skitter away from her compone grin. What the hell are you going to do with a blanquita?
Bone the shit out of her, Elvis offers.”