Erin came home this afternoon. he's still sick, but can take antibiotics by mouth rather than intravenously. I realize this autobiographicality may be the worst of blogs but there's not much possibility in writing about anything else. my reading the past 9 days has been Down Spooky by Shanna Compton, and Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. I've indicated here earlier that I'm down with Spooky. Stephenson's pretty good. it was recommended by Erin's friend and his friend's father, and they gave me a copy. I like it better than what I've read by Bruce Sterling and William Gibson (maybe 3 novels between them). Stephenson's characters have a warmth that I find lacking in the other 2, and a bouncier humour. I'd love to get back into reading novels. where novels fail for me is to the degree they simplify life into structured resolutions. I definitely don't want to watch any sitcoms, thanks. King of Queens is, I confess, oddly likeable, but I've had enough. that Ray Romano show is thoroughly unlikeable, but sometimes succeeds despite. Bill Cosby is fascinating in its good-for-you ickiness, but I believe his success made Tom Werner rich enough to place the Red Sox securely into the category of fat cats and World Series winners. Steve Hervey show is mild, comely crap. I like watching the secondary characters (played by tertiary actors) fuss about in the poorly conceived "bits" they are imprisoned by. I did a little writing, sitting near a window overlooking the Concord River.