and the Prisoner of Azkaban, currently

"Ah! I haven't done this in so long and I can't figure out why I stopped."
"What?" you ask, slyly.
"Reading a good book!" I yelp. "I can't get enough of JK Rowling!" I let out a little squeal and a yip before jumping in the air a little and grinning wide.

There is nothing quite like it. Last week, after finishing Tim O'Briens interminable and lesser novel, GOING AFTER CACCIATO, I figured the time was ripe to finally begin reading the series everyone has been talking about for the past decade. Dwight referenced it in the penultimate episode of THE OFFICE this season and, well, frankly, that's enough for me.

So, here we are, approximately one week later (give or take a day or two) and I'm midway through the third book. Hermoine is taking so many classes, her books just ripped a hole in her bookbag. Harry was told he's going to die by the Divination teacher. Draco is milking his stupid arm wound for all it's worth, giving poor Ron a terrible time of it. And Beedow is loving it.

I stay awake late. I get up early. I don't mind the long-ass subway rides I had to take over the weekend. I've forgotten about food (but not the season finales this past week, nor have I calmed down about what's going to happen Wednesday on LOST, but that's for tomorrow night), and if you know me, you know that means something's afoot! sir (as Sir Sherlock would have exclaimed).

I'm giddy as a schoolgirl, although, thankfully with my new fangled haircut, I no longer have the longish hair to be confused with one anymore. That's right. Beedow got what amounts to a military cut - no worries, I'm not going off to fight for my country and save our land or our fine upstanding president's hide. I just look like I am.

Thank you. I hope I made sense (said Parker Posy - nice link, JJ).

rants: tele

Color me confused, I guess. I was reading some articles on CNN.com while I'm here getting paid to wait for the phone to ring. Americans today have such interesting and strange concerns, habits and feelings, don't you think?

For instance, the article was about television. NBC had its worst two weeks EVER last month, and ratings are generally down across the boards. Okay, they said and tried to figure out why this was. Perhaps because of the early daylight savings time. Maybe because television sucks. Or, maybe because people are simply using their DVRs to record and watch later, when they choose, sans advertising. Well, advertisers hope it isn't the latter.

I'm going to side note on this topic for a minute. Now, don't get me wrong. Since moving into my apartment in January, I began to discover the joy of DVR. I can tune in to GREY'S ANATOMY at 9:15 and watch the whole episode, sans commercial interruption and still be done by 10:00. "Wowza!" thought innocent little me. Now, four and a half months into this charade I've come to realize that in fact, *I AM MISSING OUT!* Sure, I get done with my program in 3/4 of the time, but I am oblivious to society. I don't know what movies or new television programs are coming up, I don't know if I should buy Scott or Charmin, and I don't know what my brain looks like on drugs. So, maybe I should go back to watching the commericals again. Or else hire an assistant to watch them and report back.

People then were able to respond in blog-like commentary about the article's merits. Anonymous responders commented they don't waste their time watching television (but they do waste it reading and writing about television online?). Or that they'd rather read a book. Or read the paper. Or get their news from online sources rather than the commercialized-we're-reporting-this-with-sexy-pictures-just-to-get-you-to-watch evening news, no longer with anyone we care about by the way.

Okay. Well. You can find some nifty, educational and exciting programs on television. Take the Discovery Channel's recent PLANET EARTH series. Damn nifty if you ask me. And what's the difference between spoiling your mind in front of the tele or surfing the net? Same difference, I'd say. And, if the technology we currently have at our fingertips had been invented back in the days when writing was invented, maybe there wouldn't be so many books. And would that be a bad thing? You can get some pretty sh*tty books and magazines out there.

I guess it's all in the way you look at it. For Beedow, I know after spending a week of staring at the internet from 10-7:30 each day, I like to go home and actually (gasp!) not turn on my trusty MAC. Instead, I spent the time on the subway home reading my book or magazine, and when I get home, I make dinner and sit in front of the television. It's relaxing. It's nice. It's comforting. And it's the same as sitting in front of a computer, or wasting one's time in a tabloid or bodice-ripper of a novella.

Tomorrow: how to cook a creamy chicken dinner and get drunk on an entire bottle of wine at the same time.

Yucky Murakami

When I was in Chicago, I began my as-yet-quite-short relationship with mister Haruki Murakami by was of Frank Gelati's adaptation (and brilliant staging) of after the quake. That was fall of ought-five. I read that series of short stories in spring ought-six, and now have just completed his Kakfa on the Shore.

In a sprawling, mystical tale, we meet Kafka, his conscience, his "mother," his "sister," his father, his father's killer, and a few other assorted characters along the way. It's a terrifying Oedipal story of love, loss and memory.

I say terrifying because it is. For the reader as well as our fifteen-year old runaway, Kafka. It's unbearable for about 40% of the 400 page novel, in that it's so egregiously graphic and excessive. I'm actually cringing writing this right now.

Of course, some of it is quite interesting, especially if you just give up the real world and let Murakami's crazy magical world live. It's fine, but I'm glad I've finished and can move on to Crichton's newest, Next.

...but where did he get the book from?

I was walking down Broadway at 108th street this afternoon on my way from a reading to a rehearsal. I passed a guy sitting next to a table of books. One caught my eye, as I turned back to him, asking how much.

"Which one?"
"This one," I pointed to Michael Crichton's NEXT.
"Uh, eight dollars."
"Eight?!"
"Come on, you know that's his newest book. It's $29.95 in the store."
"Nevermind. Not for eight bucks" I mutter and proceed to cross the street. Half way across the street, I turn back and re-approach the man. "OK, you got me."
"You would've got yourself if you didn't take this book," he quipped.

So, now I have Crichton's newest on the shelf, waiting for me to finish Murakami's meandering story about a boy named Kafka, children mysteriously falling down and losing consciousness in the forest, and a man who talks to cats.