Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Cooked

You'll have to forgive my brief absence. I am, to use a technical term, fried. Today, I'm simultaneously juggling a review of Chuck's new book and a number of business articles including a brief profile of a company called (I kid you not) Big Ass Fans. (Yeah, that will drive up the traffic).

I am also playing Waiting for Godot, the home game, with a number of very talented and critically praised authors including a Guggenheim Fellow, a Cold War historian and many other interesting and vibrant personalities who shall, as they say in baseball, be named later.

What else is shaking?

As much as I enjoyed Pat Conroy's heart attack-on-a-plate cookbook, I'm much happier about a 700-page novel full of the southern author's dysfunctional drama. Conroy's a kindred spirt.

I'm not even sure what Miranda July's book is about but anyone who writes on her appliances is cool in my book.

I'm trying resist the urge to drive like a bat out of hell for Mahattan to catch Tartan Noir Night with Ian Rankin and Denise Mina. The Rap Sheet has the goods on this and other literary events (drinking contests) in April.

Like me, Clive James rocks out on International Crime Novels at the New Yorker, specifically the European front Only with, y'know, big words and stuff.

And Queen Latifah wants to be Alexander McCall Smith's uber-popular African detective. You go girl.

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