Not much to do to while away the hours except shovel and read. My hip is a little sore, but nowhere near as much as two weeks ago. I think I will skip my weekend visits to my sister's, although I'm running low on clean underwear.
I just finished David Tillman's comic novel, Finding Woodstock, which was among the 100+ books my friend Arlynn has donated to the cause. I'm not a big fan of comedy, so I picked it up hesitantly. Seinfeld was in reruns years before I appreciated its genius. In my early viewings, George Costanza's behavior often had me reaching for the remote and mumbling to myself. Eventually, I saw that the show, ironically referred to as about nothing when George and Jerry come up with an idea for a sitcom, is a deft look at the neuroses of moderns spoiled by the myriad choices that freedom and longevity provide.
Anyway, I have no nostalgia for the values of the 60's. David Tillman does. Set in 1997, the novel pokes gentle fun at corporations, the suburbs and rural life. It is a brisk, light read. His prose is stellar, graceful, far better than that of all the million-seller mystery writers, save Joy Fielding, I've sampled recently. His observations are amusing. The narrative falters under an outrageous climax, but it's meant to be fun, not heavy. His choice at the end does not surprise, but I would have liked to have known his wife's reaction. On a scale of five: three.
Guess what - more snow is on the way.
Read Vic's stories, free: http://vicfortezza.homestead.com/
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