Regular readers of this blog―i.e., my parents―may have noticed that there was no post here last week. That’s because on Thursday, December 7, we got out of town as the Lilac Fire advanced on our house. At the time we left, the fire had charred a path nine miles long in a single afternoon. Officials were saying there was a good chance the fire would go all the way to the ocean. And what was directly between the fire and the ocean?
Because “Game of Thrones” is only available on disc from Netflix, the arrival of new episodes is subject to the vagaries of timing and the postal service, which means that there are occasions when no “GoT” is available. I’ve tried to fill those gaps with streaming series, without much success so far.
These days, I do nearly all my reading on an e-reader, currently an InkBook Obsidian, but I do on occasion return to the dead tree books of yore. Typically this will be because someone gave or loaned me said dead tree edition. Such was the case with Dune, which, being a door-stopper of a book, I eventually bought in e-form so I wouldn’t have to fight with it when reading at lunch; and such is the case with the Nero Wolfe books, which my father sent to me in a box a while back. I’ve read them all before, but now I’m reading them again, because who doesn’t like to spend some time visiting old friends? The one I’m currently into is Plot it Yourself, in which Wolfe goes up against a con artist with a fondness for pretending that popular novels are plagiarisms of his or her own work, and also for knives.
So here I am still reading The Black Mountain, by Rex Stout, months after starting it — not because it’s a long book or because it’s a slog but because it’s made of paper, and if I attempt to read a paper book anywhere near Saya the Mighty she will try her best to steal it and shred it, and we can’t have that, now can we?
So this week I’m reading — or rather, re-reading — The Golden Spiders, another entry in the Nero Wolfe series, by Rex Stout. The spiders in question are not Spiders from Mars, but rather, an unusual pair of earrings worn by a woman in a car who asks a squeegee urchin to call the police. Hilarity (and, of course, murder) ensues.