Going postal

I'm spending a lot of time in the post office these days. The book business is booming. Well, I've sold three, but you gotta start somewhere.
Yesterday, I happened upon Eeshandazadeggi, and we had a good talk. It was funny: at one point he was struggling to say something like 'untotalitizing totality' when a post office customer intervened (her first mistake): "do you mean 'totalitarianism?'"
"No no no" he mumbled, waving the interferer away.
Mostly our discussion consisted in him talking about a book he'd read, and me saying that I didn't know anything about that thinker. Lukacs...Heidegger...Baudrillard.
I couldn't resist making fun of Baudrillard though. He's kind of like Zizek, someone who, in one of Lewis's possible worlds gets taken seriously, but who just gets laughed at in this world. A kind of Walter Mitty character, if you will (it amuses me that this is considered an insult; I would love to be a fantasist).
Speaking of which, I am trying to construct a conspiracy theory about how I am surrounded by conspiracy theorists. Leaving the post office with Eeshandazadeggi, we stopped to talk to P. Interestingly, the initials of my interlocutors spelled 'ESP' (coincidence? - I think not, my friend!). I am also alarmed by the fact that the two clevererest undergraduates in the philosophy department believe the 9/11 Twin Towers extravaganza was laid on by the CIA. Now I know their reasoning processes are probably fatally flawed, given that they both love Heidegger and Wittgestein, but still...

In other news, I am finding ever new and inventive ways to entertain myself while reading. To begin with, I laugh out loud every time Renaud Barbaras uses the word 'rigorous', which is about twice every page. When the espresso twitches get especially bad, I amuse myself by emitting loud and bizarre noises, over the blaring Mahler, then imagining with glee the look of consternation on my elderly neighbours' faces.
Now before you get to thinking that I am some sort of yob, I would like to point out that these aren't your ordinary elderly neighbours. Mr Respectable wears a leather jacket and pilot sunglasses. In the quietest, loneliest loneliness, it is possible to hear the soothing rhythms of machine-gun fire issuing from his Playstation. One foot in the grave he is not.