I really wish I could've met August Strindberg. Not that I particularly like his work or find the man especially likeable. Honestly, I wish we could've met and he would immediately be seized by uncontrollable, inexplicable loathing so that he would spend the rest of his days trying to foil my every action. Yes, I want August Strindberg to be my arch enemy so that, at an appropriately climatic moment in my life, I can scream, "STRINDBERG!!!!" into the raging wind and collapsing inferno of my life.
However, I'm glad that I never met Samuel Beckett. It would've sucked being friends with him. Can you imagine planning to meet Beckett for a drink or inviting him over for dinner? Every time he was late you'd think to yourself, "Christ, I'm waiting for Beckett again." The irony would just be too much.
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Happy St. Patrick's Day! I will now meander my way to St. Charles Avenue where I drunken Irish float riders will throw cabbages and potatoes at me. This should be interesting. There will be stew!
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