I’m at one of those interim, it’s-outta-my-hands stages of the whole job thing, and finding it very hard to concentrate on anything, even television. (Though last night’s all-new CSI, entitled Pirates of the Third Reich, in which Melinda “Call Me Julie Cooper-Nichol” Clark made an appearance as the supersmart dominatrix Lady Heather who at one point straps a neo-nazi mad scientist to a car in the middle of the desert and slaps him with a bull-whip until he cries, kept me fairly enthralled.) Last night I dreamt about the I Love Egg! song, and that Posh Spice and Shakira were the same person and I had a huge poster of her in my dorm room, and that I finally hooked up with That Boy From High School I Never Hooked Up With (that last of which is a recurring event in my dream life, I confess). This morning I found myself finally signing up for the McSweeney’s Book Release Club, which I’ve been trying to resist for weeks, and decided that in the interest of avoiding a full day of buying up my various wish lists through internet book sellers, I should go into the city and wander around. I think I’ll go see Capote at some point, at which I’ll release In Cold Blood, which I finished a few nights ago, and which puts Law & Order to shame.
I realized this week that I watch Law & Order with religious devotion because I have a serious problem that cries for therapeutic intervention, but I watch CSI with a similar devotion because it’s really fucking good.
Someone say something witty and fun. Here we are now; entertain us.