Nothing like feeling sick to get me blogging again. I’m sitting here watching the season’s premiere of Heroes, and poor Hiro Nakamura has already lost the secret formula his father entrusted him to protect in his last well and testament. Nathan Petrelli has been killed and come back to life, and Claire’s finally had her brain damaged by Sylar. As usual, an eventful opening episode, marred only by the presence of Mohinder, who exemplifies the stereotype of stupid genius.
Other things have me hooked. I’ve been reading up a storm this summer (although I can’t remember a thing I’ve read), and my disgusting guilty pleasure is the Gossip Girl series. My friend at work told me it was a packaged series. I was so shocked to hear that – I am incredibly naive sometimes. My other current read is Liar by Lynn Crosbie, which is somewhat disconcerting and difficult for me to read, partially because of its beauty and resonance, and partially because the subject of Liar is someone I know. Although I’m sure much of what she writes about is embellished by imagination, the overall sensation is still somewhat creepy. I’ve read much of her other writing, including VillainElle, Paul’s Case, Miss Pamela’s Mercy, and Queen Rat, and I’m always fascinated by her macabre fascinations. It’s like watching late night documentaries about human freaks on TLC, only it’s poetry.
I wish the Toronto Public Library had a record of books read, so I could look back at my reading list.
Now I remember. I read the entire series of The Saturdays by Elizabeth Enright. I was talking about it with my boss, who was looking for reading material for her son, and there arose in me such a spirit of nostalgia that I promptly borrowed them all from the library and relived my fifth grade outings with the Melendy family: Mona, Rush, Randy, Oliver, Father, and Cuffy the cook.
Oh, it was lovely, the first adventure on the streets of Manhattan, with hair salons, operas, circuses, an art gallery, a lost dog, and a picnic in Central Park.
Then the second, The Four Storey Mistake, sees the family sell their New York City brownstone and move to a queer little house in Carthage (not far from where I went to university), where they learn to adapt to their new lives and their new home.
And the last two, Then There Were Five, and Spiderweb for Two, which continues our comfortable relationship with the Melendys in an age of innocence and childlike satisfaction with the world. If only life were babbling brooks and living room theatre.
Oh yes, also:
A Short History of Progress by Ronald Wright, that had been on my list for a long time, and I only just got to last month. Intriguing, if conjectural and meandering.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson, which started out as a hysterically funny read, and wound up feeling like listening to the ravings of a lunatic on mushrooms. Which, actually, it is. After a while, it just became tedious, and for the first time, I returned a book without reading the last few pages.
I’m currently reading Show Business by Shashi Tharoor, and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami.
What else? My parents were here for much of the summer and now that they’ve left, I miss them.
And now Mohinder is making out with that other Heroes blemish Maya, so I will say goodnight. Oh! Is that Ken Lally playing The German? OMG! It is TOTALLY Ken! He and I acted in Medea (a contemporaryish version in which there were 3 Medeas — I was one of them) together at university. He was Jason of the Argonauts. Woot! Go Ken! Go Ken!