I really liked The End of Mr. Y by Scarlett Thomas, and now I'm really liking PopCo by Scarlett Thomas, either because of or in spite of the fact that if I were to meet the book's narrator in real life I suspect I would want to have sex with her immediately. But more important is the fact that the book hits that sweet spot I sometimes--like, right now--require, the one where the wave patterns rippling off of "compulsive, entertaining readability" and "not talking to me like I'm a gimp-brained retard" meet to engage in some sweet sweet mutual amplification. It's about all that I can do anymore to muster up the will to think at night: it's nice to have the chance to feed the thoughts I do bother having a terrific snack.