I'm a liberal/leftist but I try to ignore politics as best as I can because talking about them makes me sound boring.
I like cooking, eating, sports, traveling, movies ... within reason, I try to have an interest in pretty much everything. But I am a terrible herb about basically all music post Wu-Tang Clan.
Favorite poem: 13 Blackbirds
I don't have a favorite book, etc., but here's some examples of things I like:
Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned (short stories)
Talladega Nights (movies)
The Red and the Black (semi-obscure French novels)
Zuni Cafe cookbook (cooking)
Casa Mono (restaurants)
I wasn’t throwing a tantrum or sobbing or anything like that. I was just staring off into the distance with tears rolling down my face. My dad asked me what was wrong.
Well, I said, what if instead of saying “great,” that lady’d said—and then I launched into a long tale of woe. I don’t remember the details (I think it might have involved her son?), but the story included poverty, irresponsibility, terminal illness, everything sad that I could think of. Whether I was imagining how it would feel to be her or what it would be like to be me listening to it, I can’t remember, but I’d like to think that I made no distinction.
The payoff here would be my dad’s reaction, but he didn’t say anything memorable enough to stick. He didn’t call me crazy or say that I’d become a great writer some day. I imagine he just sighed, Louis C.K.–like, with a resignation that a parent can never ultimately understand the inner workings of his kid.
(If there’s a point to this story, it’s that rather being this soulful empathetic prodigy, I happily and loudly detailed the checkout lady’s hypothetical tale of woe as she processed our transaction.)