(You’re asking yourself, WTF is he on now?)
I didn’t intend it this way, but I’m reading 3 books by Russian authors right now. It’s not like I’m so great or some super-reader or on a mission to read really really wordy authors or something. My God, those Russkies can go on and on about ideological ideas, can’t they? It’s like this: I read a book at bedtime, because I have a bunch of books on my headboard instead of stray hairs from some woman, or women (hey, my blog, my fantasy, right?) who lost them while their heads were going back, back, back on one of my pillows. I have one book in my locker at work, for afternoon break. Sometimes I talk to people at breaktime; but the book is there for if no one worth talking to is there. Yeah, I’m arrogant like that; I’ll be nice to a random boring person I meet, but I won’t sit and listen to some intensely, repeatedly boring co-worker drone on and on and on. Afternoon breaks are fluid, and can happen any old time somewhere near 2pm, but morning breaks are sacred, and have to happen at 9am, because my wussy stomach needs to wake up before I slam down coffee, so I wait a couple hours into the workday before I get my big caffeine-and-sugar fix, but I don’t wait a couple hours and ten minutes. At morning break I read the local paper, if it’s there and if somebody else doesn’t have it already, and I do the “celebrity cypher,” a letter-substitution code-thingy. I just grab some thin book from home for my afternoon break reading, because sometimes I don’t get back to it for days and don’t want to have some book in my locker that I’m super fascinated about (sometimes the break room company is great, and funny and charming).
The third book I read, I keep in what some people call “the reading room,” because, contrary to what doctors will tell you, sometimes it’s just good to sit for a bit and let your body relax, and some people are NOT able to just quickly sit down, do their business, and then shower and head to work, and the best way to relax and take your mind off why your body is such an inefficient, dumbass monkeyfucker sometimes is just to let your mind drift off into some world created by an author. (Sorry about the politically incorrect talk, but I’ve had a running feud with my body for years and don’t always think highly of it or talk respectfully about it; I suppose my body would say it’s all my fault that it’s such an “inefficient…,” well you know the rest.) Anyway, the book there is usually some old classic, something I picked up somewhere, usually a classic that I’ve always wanted to read, not some potboiler murder mystery that I can’t put down, more like something that it takes a while to buy into, because it was written a long time ago and the language is a bit different even though it’s literally English, so it’s best to read when you’re a “captive audience.”
So, it’s translated Anna Karenina by Tolstoy in the master bathroom, translated Fathers and Sons by Turgenev at work, and, in the master bedroom at the mansion here, for some reason, Lolita by old Vlad Nabokov, in original English of course . Which is good because no translator could make English flow that well. Usually it’s lighter fiction or some rock-star bio for bedtime reading, not a difficult-to-swallow premise like Lolita. Heck, the last book I read in the bedroom was The Secret Garden (never read it as a kid, and it’s a feel-good book, good for sweet dreams, not nightmares). Well, actually I’m reading Lolita because one of my “Anna” blogging friends blogged about it lately, and I figured it’s about time. Terrible story, told splendidly.
Anyway, long story short, I’m reading so many Russian authors I’m surprised my eyebrows aren’t 6 inches long and grown together. You’ve seen pics of the old Russian physicists or leaders; their eyebrows are like Sam Waterston’s on steroids. I never figured out why they didn’t trim them; I guess they were too busy building actual weapons of mass destruction to worry about vanity. Although, get this, when I was looking for pictures to put in here for examples of eyebrows-gone-mad, I found Leonid Brezhnev, who, it was claimed in one of the photos I found on Google, once asked a photographer to make him look as good as Audrey Hepburn. I think it worked:
I’m not switching to vodka, though; I prefer my bourbon, thank you very much. Or boxed wine.
(I don’t know why I do this blogging thing, I guess it’s just a fun hobby that doesn’t usually result in pulled muscles like some hobbies can. And I have some serious cabin fever lately. Well, thanks as always for reading.)