So. I'm still here, I guess.
Sorry about the sporadic posting these days. I'm allowing the cocoon of summer to fold me into its somnolent embrace. I haven't even listened to any news or watched any television besides Judge Judy and the Mavericks (and I don't want to talk about the Mavericks).
I've made a few trips to the library and read several books, which just adds to my dreaminess. I've always been that way; if you let me read novels long enough my mind goes floaty and vague and it's an effort to focus on "reality," like when your alarm is going off and you keep dreaming about waking and getting up, over and over, until you're not sure it's real even when you do finally rise.
(Heh. I'd like to introduce my guest blogger today: Rene Descartes!)
This may be useful to someone: I pulled Stephen King's latest novel Cell off the new fiction shelf last week. Don't waste your time. It wasn't as bad as some of the rubbish he's cobbled together in the last decade or so, but there's nothing to recommend it either. My main impression was that it's unfinished; it doesn't even answer the questions of the perpetrator's identity or motives. Maybe he went for postmodern denial of closure or something, but it's tough to pull that off with a pulp horror novel. It's also a painfully obvious cardboard cribbing of The Stand, which is a legitimately good book, so there's that as well.
I'm about to start on Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day this afternoon. I expect that to be a markedly more satisfying experience.