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In Memory of Paul Auster: The Dead Writer Who Made Me Feel Alive

The year was 2020, and the place was New York, and our depressed protagonist of that moment was me. Like everybody else, I was trying to find ways to stay sane. Taking long walks through the city. Watching Love Is Blind and Tiger King and Ozark in an apartment with my girlfriend where we’d just wiped down all the groceries with Clorox. Getting on several anti-depressants. It’s hard to remember what was March and what was April and what was May of that year.

One day I was being sent to work from home, the next, Rudy Gobert was rubbing a microphone, and suddenly the world was gone, and we all fell into a Randolph Carter half-slumber.

And then there was Paul Auster. The writer whose words woke me up.

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Being a Sixers Fan is Embarrassing

The other day, my friend Michael was chastised by his boss for forgetting to do something simple. “You’re too smart to be making such sloppy mistakes,” he said. And Michael, sick of being talked to this way, retorted that the job had simply not given him a reason to care. He was making mistakes because he was burned out, they hadn’t promoted him, and he was being paid nearly minimum wage. Now, mileage may vary on each side of this argument. You could say that the reason Michael isn’t being promoted or making more money is because he doesn’t care enough. You could say the reason the boss is displeased is because he doesn’t empower Michael or give him a reason to care. It’s a chicken or the egg argument. But either way, you could make a valid point.

So what fucking excuse do the Sixers have?

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