So this week I’m (shocker!) still reading the 800-odd-page long Dragonriders of Pern trilogy — I think I’m somewhere near the beginning of the second book, which begins about seven years after the end of the first one. Thread is still falling, dragons are still (mostly) burning it, and somebody has nice hair.
So this week I’m reading Devil’s Lair, by David Wisehart, in which William of Ockham — yes, thatWilliam of Ockham — goes in search of the Holy Grail. And how does one find the Holy Grail? By retracing the steps of the narrator of Dante’s Inferno, of course!
This week I’m reading Tunnel Vision, by Aric Davis, in which a red-headed teenage detective assists a couple of teenage girls who are investigating the fifteen-year-old murder of one of the girls’ not-quite-a-teenager-at-the-time aunt.
Not The Poster For A French Movie About A Lonely Bicycle
So at the moment I’m reading (R)evolution by P.J. Manney, which is not to be confused with this:
(R)evolution is a techno-thriller involving nanotechnology and computer-upgraded brains and secret cabals, sort of Neal Stephenson meets William Gibson meets Dan Brown meets Oliver Sacks meets Daniel Suarez.
This is what happens when you fall asleep in the kudzu.
So this week I’m reading Suicide Forest, a horror novel (possibly involving ghosts) by Jeremy Bates, in which a group of hikers, whose plan to scale Mount Fuji has been thwarted by weather, decide to go camp in Japan’s Aokigahara forest.
So this week I’m reading No Sleep Till BrooklynNo Hope For Gomez! by Graham Parke. This is the humorous story of one Gomez Porter, a subject in an experimental drug trial who begins to have strange experiences that he documents on his blog. Hmm, strange experiences documented on a blog? That sounds familiar …
Unisex bathroom. Check shoes, sombreros, and automobiles at the door.
So recently I’ve been motoring through my pile list of unread books on the Kindle, not because I suddenly have more time to read, but because about a year ago — that’s how far behind I am — I evidently picked up a number of stinkers from BookBub and/or Pixel of Ink. This surprises no one who has seen my Netflix streaming queue. (In case you’re wondering why you haven’t seen a series of one-star ratings from me on Goodreads, it’s because I have a sort of policy about not rating books unless I get a good way into them, say, 10-15%, before I quit. Ah, the digital age, when we measure our reading progress in percentages rather than pages. But I digress.) But fortunately, I just arrived at The Uncanny Valley.
So over the last week or so we watched the film “Birdman“, in which Michael Keaton plays a washed-up actor who used to play an avian-themed superhero named Batman Birdman.
Not “Batman”. Also not “Jackie Brown”. Also not “The Paper”. Also not …