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My twenty-third book of the year was McSweeney's Issue no. 14. The hard part about this for me is that there were several great short stories in this issue. But, as with any collection of material, there were a few that didn't really resonate with me. I wouldn't consider my self an intellectual reader of fiction, but I see a great value in stretching one's self in these areas. I don't really intend on becoming a great lover of contemporary fiction, that's just not me. There is, however, a great deal of appreciation on my part for anyone willing to push the boundaries of there field. When I was young I spent a pretty large amount of time in art galleries. At least compared to most children my age, and I can recall an overwhelming sense of "I don't get it." I often would tell my dad, "I could have done that." and he would without fail reply, "but you didn't." As you can imagine this was very frustrating as a 10 year old trying to make sense of Rothko, or Pollock. But Robert Rauschenberg seemed the most strange to me. I can remember thinking "all he did was collage some other peoples photos together and screen print them. But now I get it, having done some screen printing I can begin to see the inspiration behind the work. It is much like the writing in-between the covers of McSweeney's no. 14. I could have done it. But I didn't