On the ol' lunch break now, so there's a bit more time for the writing. I really mean to update more, it's just the old dialup song again. And it's not as if it really matters, after all, as I've not been doing amazingly much. Since VK came home I've been slacking off on reading my piles of novels, as we tend to chill and watch movies nearly every night (from Titus to, of all things, the shockingly entertaining Spy Kids) and otherwise I'm working or sleeping. Of course, the matter of Steinbeck now batting 3-2 for me is contributing. I just assumed, having loved Grapes of Wrath, Cannery Row, and Of Mice and Men that The Pearl was just some demonish bad seed. Alas, Winter of Our Discontent is providing me with a summer of intense ennui, annoying as my last few reads--Fry's Making History, Minot's Monkeys, Lowenthal's Avoidance--were so DAMN GOOD. I also have the "about time it's translated" Ring lined up after this, making me really impatient to get the suffering over and done. I don't know what it is with this one--just kinda a dud with me. I think when one has as many novels as Steinbeck, there are just going to be a few foul balls here and there. I'm told to read Tortilla Flats, though, to bring him up to 4-2. Good luck that happening this summer--the reading list is still huge.

Oh, and that Harry Potter book thing. It'll be read once a friend gets a copy, reads it, lends it to me. She's richer than the Queen, I don't think she'll be needing my 30 bucks as much as Blixa does. Muahaha!

Music-- uh, when I was on check in, the wonderous Hail to the Thief by Radiohead. Buy it now. Thom Yorke needs to be richer than Germany. Or something.