Going Postal:

I remembered recently that every morning before I went to high school senior year, I listened to American Music, Kiss Off, and Add it Up by the Violent Femmes.  For some reason, this seems like information key to explaining the following 12 years of adulthood. 

That's all for now.  So....

The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen:  Funnier than the first time I read it, but Franzen is still an ass.  Actually, I think I feel about Franzen in general the way I feel about watching all of The Simple Life, Season 2: I enjoyed the experience, laughed a lot, groaned a lot, and feel sleazy after.  Actually I guess that makes reading Franzen like many things that people do shamefully, in private.  Him as a person (read: utter contempt for all that is humane and compassionate) comes through so strongly that I sometimes began to feel nauseated.  Also: Long-Winded Bastard (see: Literary Parlor Tricks For Dummies).

Guards! Guards! and Small Gods, Terry Pratchett:  These books gave me tears.  Literal tears of mirth and delight.  Instead of a review, I'll refer you to St. Thomas Aquinas: "To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary.  To one without faith, no explanation is possible".

The Book of Daniel, E.L. Doctorow:  Dear Kate.  Normally when you push a book on me in such an aggressive fashion, I imagine it must be highly literary, studied extensively in the hallowed halls of the ivy league, cleverly written, and an astounding work of art.  I imagine I will not like it one bit.  When it comes to Doctorow, I am happy to be Very Wrong.  Very Wrong Indeed.

Iron Sunrise, Charles Stross:  Not as good as the first Eschaton-based novel.  Couldn't tell you why.

Coraline, Neil Gaiman:  Joyous.  Creepy.  Good. 

WEEK 17 TOTAL: 14,239 PAGES!