Last Night I Read A Damn BOOKI came home last night with a new friend -- the computer headache. The computer headache is a large gerbil that lives right behind my eyeballs and snores very loudly. When he rolls over in his sleep, it makes my eyes bulge.
When the headache gerbil's thrashing around, pretty much the last thing I want to do is sat back down at home and write another brilliant piece of electronic navel-gazing.
So you know what I did instead? I read a damn BOOK. VARIOUS books, actually. I've found that I can simulate rapid-fire web browsing quite well by simply making a big sloppy stack of newspapers, novels and comic books and fluttering right through the pile. It's great!
I'm pleased to report that Bill Bryson's new memoir is spit-your-coffee funny, and Y: The Last Man continues to thrill and entertain.
The best thing about reading some damn books is that nobody's trying to flex their social agenda in them. When you close a book for a minute and come back to it, nobody comes and scribbles catty things under a poorly veiled pseudonym in the margins. There's not much authorial infighting, and when I read say, Ken Kesey, never roll my eyes and think "what kind of a profession have I gotten myself into, where ADULTS act like this!"
And you don't get that weird headache, either. Try it tonight, people: real books by real writers. There's nothing like it in the world.