Reading Richard Ford's "Lay of the Land" right now. 400+ pages describing 3+ days surrounding Thanksgiving 2000 in the life of sportswriter-turned-realtor Frank Bascombe. Hardly subject matter easily marketed to other readers, and yet, I would prefer reading it than doing nearly anything else lately. Frank's story is careening towards a significant event, but an event only significant within Frank's Permanent Period, not necessarily notable to anyone else in Frank's world. However, because I have been immersed in Frank's head for 300+ pages, the impending event does feel doomful.
Not unlike this last season of The Soprano's. Tony and Frank (both middle-aged men of New Jersey), are stumbling through similar uncertainties. And their middle aged angst is familiar to my own heady thoughts of the future.
