Etcetera

The mental system, you might say, isn't precisely down, this week, but it is undergoing something akin to overhaul. It's not so dramatic, but it does involve the body's decision to follow up the rebooting of certain segments of the brain with its own miniature forms of wholesale rebellion. I suppose if exhaustion, explosive sinus pressure, and a general willingness to believe that becoming not alive would be just fine are the worst things I can say about life this week, then, I'm really not so bad off. I mean, hey, at least I'm not Harriet Miers. Hotel Supreme Court, right? You can check out, but you can never check in! Aw, zing!

Anyways. For some reason my malaise has dredged up immense blogger guilt, that unique shame that plagues one with the sense that he or she is failing miserably to fulfill the non-existent obligations of a hobby nobody asked him or her to take seriously in the first place. When the guilt settles in, I get this uniquely thrilling belief up in me that deleting the blog--nay, removing myself from the internet completely--would be a step in the right life-direction. As rational as that might be, I tend to automatically combat such notions by diving head-first into the template file and tinkering. So, you'll notice, or won't, if you are inattentive or are reading subversive underground Spanish translation bootleg newspaper editions of the blog, that things continue to flex and shift around here--a splash of color here, a bit of new feature there. Most notable, I think, is the dumping of the books log in the sidebar, in favor of mini-mini-reviews of select books. Think of it as my way of helping you find books I think you might like (where "you" are someone who has tastes somewhat similar to mine). Also it's sort of my polite way of saying, "Hey, maybe I don't write real good full-length critical pieces, and maybe I am the weakest book-topic-taking-up blog around, but, hey, I do have a sidebar chock full of almost acceptably interesting mini-mini-reviews! Just like bloggers who are better than me, except, not very well done!" It's something, at least.

Speaking of books--the previously mentioned brain-drain situation has meant reading has happened more slowly than I'd like, but despite all that I did get through Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, which was one of those books that when my girlfriend found out I hadn't read it, she pretty much duct taped her copy to my hands then snapped a mental riding crop and said, "Read it, bitch." Which, aside from being way hot, is also completely untrue. She did strongly suggest I read the book, though, and I did, somehow, and, you know. Yeah, I dug it. As has been mentioned elsewhere it's hard, without a bit of mental gymnastics, to see today how this book would have once upon a time been the hot new kid on the block. Radicalism aside, it still works today; there's a certain chill to be had when done with the book, by walking across the room and googling up some pictures. Tombstones and stuff. Yeah. Yikes.

Now I've moved on to Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, which is, you know, hilarious. So far. Had I not read and loved Never Let Me Go I doubt my desire to dive back into the Ishiguro backlog would be what it is now, what with the still to this day lingering effects of the The Unconsoled affair (a book which, yes, I do plan on re-reading, probably not as soon as I might like to). And now here I am and I'm reading that book about the butler, the one that from what I'd heard of it once upon a time--respected, someone made a movie out of it, awards, seemed slow--seemed all capital-L Literary and dull and what not, and, dammit, I'm laughing out loud at parts of it. Nobody ever told me the book would be funny--or if they did, I assumed they meant that capital-L Literary type of funny that doesn't mean you go "ha ha ha" out loud because it's funny but rather you go "oh ho, yes, clever" to yourself because you smugly enjoy being wealthy. Suffice it to say that Ishiguromania around these parts hasn't exactly let up. If they made rock-star style posters of the guy, well, let's say, I'd be learning a thing or two about having things professionally framed, yes.

Beyond Ishiguro, for November, I've got the new Land-Grant College Review to plow through, I've got an older John Banville on the coffee table since he seems to be important, I plan to finally be able to officially say I've actually read Pynchon (meaning, I've got a copy of The Crying of Lot 49 waiting over there), and, uhm, stuff. There's things floating around, enough certainly to fill up my quota for the month. Then December--I've got something special planned for December. Special for me, in any case. Whether I share the specialness with you depends on whether or not I can come up with interesting ways to share. Oo! Cliffhanger!