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Solo

All alone tonight, as Lisa was forced by her cruel masters to fly to Tampa for work. She'll be back tomorrow night, so it could've been worse, I suppose. As for me, I'm left to contemplate the morning rain and find some source of amusement. Something'll come to me, I'm sure of it.

Reading Matter, Current: Gun, With Occasional Music, the first novel by Jonathan Lethem. It's good, but there's one fairly serious problem with it. Basic premise, if you're unfamilar with it: it's a noir mystery added to a Phil Dick world, then blended at frappé. Here's the deal. Lethem's adopted the POV and language of a Raymond Chandler-esque PI, which includes interesting metaphors to describe the character's mental state, physical surroundings, and events as they unfold. Problem is, the character is also in a world populated with evolved animals, where people can't ask direct questions, everyone has a literal karma balance, and other deviations from now. As a result, when he uses some freaky metaphor to describe something, it's sometimes hard to tell if this is happening literally or figuratively. As a result, I keep getting tossed out of the book. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Reading Matter, Recent: Over the weekend, Everything's Eventual, the most recent King short fiction collection. I've got another problem with this one, but it's not literary. I bought it used from our library (fringe benefit in action) and it's quite banged up. Broken spine and so forth. Which is fine, since I don't require used books to be pristine. However, I do have a problem with the fact that it looks like someone wiped his nose on one of the pages. Lisa suggested maybe it's just spilled food. I think not. For one thing, it'd have to be split pea soup. And for another, they did it right on the opening page of "The Road Virus Heads North." Gaah.