The Fredösphere

Amazon recommended I read The Egyptologist.  My predisposition to finish any book I start propelled me all the way through it, but it was a near run thing.  The middle got a bit dull, and I expected more of a surprise at the end than was delivered.  By the end, the running jokes were stale, but they were quite funny when they were introduced.  (Amazon's reviewers call it a "non-mystery mystery," which seems about right to me.)  The main character, writing in his journal in the 1920s, always wants the reader to know what's playing on his Victrola.  I suspect it's meant to be a parody of a blogger's ipod log.

The wifeösphere is convalescing and the offspring are visiting Camp Grandparents, so I'm enjoying an idyllic weekend of leisure and perfect weather.  I compose until the creative bladder runs dry, then I read until the creative juices are restored.  Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age is sparkly with wit; its author is famous for Snow Crash, Cryptonomicon, and The Baroque Cycle, but even the light of this lesser gem is blinding.  That Stephenson's oeuvre routinely flatters my prejudices increases the burden of reading it not one whit; homeschooling elitists and anti-anti-hypocrites get pats on the head in The Diamond Age.

Here's a sample.  Our neo-Victorian hero finds his past misdeeds have caught up with him and he's receiving informal, but intimidating, interrogation over lunch:

Hackworth took a bit of his sandwich, correctly anticipating that the meat would be gristly and that he would have plenty of time to think about his situation while his molars subdued it.  He did have plenty of time, as it tuned out; but as frequently happen to him in these situations, he could not bring his mind to bear on the subject at hand.  All he could think about was the taste of the sauce.  If the manifest of ingredients on the bottle had been legible, it would have read something like this:

Water, blackstrap molasses, imported habanero peppers, salt, garlic, ginger, tomato puree, axle grease, real hickory smoke, snuff, butts of clove cigarettes, Guinness Stout fermentation dregs, uranium mill tailings, muffler cores, monosodium glutamate, nitrates, nitrites, nitrotes and nitrutes, nutrites, natrotes, powdered pork nose hairs, dynamite, activated charcoal, match-heads, used pipe cleaners, tar, nicotine, single-malt whiskey, smoked beef lymph nodes, autumn leaves, red fuming nitric acid, bituminous coal, fallout, printer's ink, laundry starch, drain cleaner, blue chrysotile asbestos, carregeenan, BHA, BHT, and natural flavorings.

You're making my mouth water!  Meanwhile, the wifeösphere and I wanted to watch the final DVDs from the third season of Alias, but the local purveyors' supplies were depleted for the weekend.  On an impulse, I earlier had picked up a copy of Shattered Glass from the library, so we watched that.  It was compelling.  This is the story of Stephen Glass, the wunderkind of The New Republic, many of whose articles were found to be complete fabrications.  Why was there no buzz for this movie when it came out?  You people are supposed to tell me about this stuff.  Hayden Christensen is really quite good as the needy, semi-autistic, yet personable Glass, wearing what looks like Elmer's glue in his hair.  See it if you haven't already.  "Are you mad at me?"  Yes, Stephen, we are very, very mad at you.