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hip deep in entertainment

I'm reading too many books at once right now.

I've finally started Kim Stanley Robinson's Red Mars, which I've owned for about four years and never previously cracked open, but Justine recently recommended it, so it's my train-ride paperback. Weezie sent me a hardcover edition of Michael Moore's Dude, Where's My Country, which appears to cover pretty much everything I've been worried about since the shrub entered office after being appointed by the Supreme Court, rather than being elected fair-and-square. Yeah, thanks for throwing in the towel, Gore. Don't quit on my account; as part of the American people that you said "deserve better," I wouldn't have minded waiting for a full recount, or a reconsideration of the entire electoral-vote process, so outmoded after all these years. Or hell, let's have a "do-over," and see how many people turn out to vote when they actually think their effort may make a difference this time. Remind me why I thought you cared.

Holy Venom! (*dismounts high-horse) Sorry. Got carried away.

Lastly, Mike lent me Rebel Code by Glyn Moody, an entertaining and detail-rich, if heavy-handed history of the recently highly significant Linux OS. This is of primary interest as background, as I am fooling around with Linux at work lately; I got a junker box and put Mandrake 9.2 on it (it didn't eat my CD-ROM drive's firmware, thanks). It is a major chore, and a lot of fun at the same time to fool around with an OS other than Mac OS X or Windows 2000-J, my two staples. There are some paradigms that are requiring brainbending, and that's always fun.

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dan simmons’ fiction

“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he