This, For Now

It is a new month, my plate is ever-full. The NBA has tossed another jump and I have linked myself to Roger's Confidential, perhaps he'll Crowe me in the end. Bad humor will thusly be walled, allowed ample self-criticism, and vanquished in tow.

I have often railed against authors swinging out of their weight, their element, their vernacular. My disgust with Ken Kalfus and his stab at a Russian narrative has been trounced by the juggernaut which is William T. Vollmann. I spoke to Harold about the man being prolific; he winked retreated to his lair and returned with Royal Family, locking in at a modest 780 pages. Enough for now, I am hoping to add Ed's blog and B92 tonight, perhaps Bookslut as well.