expert at a good hooky day, i'm ticked that i had to cash one in today because, for the stupidest reason, i was up late with wine and reading this book for my book group at work, this 400+ pg. novel of strapping, pulitzer fiction that i've been putting off like a term paper. so this morning waking up late and with a headache, what do i go and do, but spend the day continuing to read the motherfucker. it's not that i particularly like it or dislike it: it's a sugar pill, like the weekend we watched the first three seasons of the sopranos, having never had cable. i feel guilty- not about the hooky, but that i'm not fiercely affected by what is clearly a smart, well-crafted novel. i can see that i'm supposed to be enthralled by the precision with which the writer makes bare for analysis every character's, major and minor, fears and foibles over the arc of 50 years, just like i can see that i'm supposed to be wearing gauchos.