El señor Tormenta

Last night I had to open my other pack of notebooks and start a new one for writing about reading Les Misérables at work, right in the middle of an entry that wound up too lousy to publish. (A highlight: "I'm having a three-notebook night.") Ended up watching half of Nacho Libre. Now a beautiful morning rolls past my window seat. With all the holidays this week, the train isn't crowded. But the MTA construction gangs are out in force again, just like yesterday; the long long-unreconstructed outbound platforms south of Newkirk teem with orange vests making time and a half in slow motion.

It's painful to contemplate, really: Marius, on the morning after his wedding night, meeting Jean Valjean and his confession--the confession of a virgin to a man still throbbing. The bride overflows the bridal chamber and appears dressed in pleated foam, demanding kisses. Her virgin father must oblige. Marius, Marius comma you almost looked like a villain there, you with your normal life.