Really, this is still a book blog. I swear.
The thing is, it's taking me a bit longer to get past the medical than I expected. The forced confinement has sent me limping off in search of less cerebral excitement. The sort you can only have at the fair. Where things must be both fried and shoved on sticks to be considered worthy of consumption. (Not unlike a lot of books I read.) I've got a fair bit of February fiction coming up and a backlog of January nonfiction. Just as soon as I figure out why they repainted the funhouse. Does anyone over the age of six use these things? It's troubling....
The fair. About which I completely blanked until this moment. Bummer.
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