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May. 15th, 2006 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
electriclandI clearly need either a dog or a tighter schedule. I left work at a decent hour but then wandered aimlessly around in the general vicinity thereof for hours. Well, not entirely aimlessly -- I nearly bought shoes (adorable, and so comfy, but I wasn't sure I could justify them when I need so many more sensible shoes) and did buy a copy of Ulysses (as ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crankygrrl's copy that I have on long-term loan is packed and I do want to make a decent effort with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ulysses_project).
I think Rachel Gibson may turn out to be my next Katie MacAlister -- marvellous on the cover blurb, disappointing on the inside. I got The Trouble with Valentine's Day out of the library and I'm not sure what irritates me most about the hero -- the Fu Manchu mustache (mentioned twice so far!), the HUMMER (always in capitals), or the incredibly tiresome internal monologue. I have now learned, entirely through the use of the interminable internal monologue in Chapter 3, that our hero was a hockey player; in fact, he was an enforcer, but with skills too; that he lived a wild life, had a child with his girlfriend, and got married; they fought because she was chronically jealous and he played around; he had sex one night with a perfectly nice-seeming woman he met in a bar who then turned into a crazy stalker and eventually shot him; his wife served him with divorce papers while he was lying in his hospital bed; and he has come to small-town Montana to be with his mother and heal. Oh, and to sublimate his sex drive, he ties fishing flies. As a result, he doesn't have sex with women he meets in bars. This last item is the ONLY piece of information I have so far learned from the action in the book. Tedious? You have no idea. I was dragging my way through it. The traffic in front of the Kingston Road streetcar on Saturday was ever so much more enthralling.
Actually the heroine's internal monologue is fairly tiresome too, but it's at least shorter and self-deprecating and funny. Ish. I mean, she's a private investigator in Vegas and she has come to small-town Montana to heal because the last job she did was for a guy who used the information she found to track down his wife and children in a nearby town and horribly murder them.
Oh yeah, and suspect hockey knowledge. I mean, for a Canadian I'm practically a hockey illiterate, but I've watched my share of games and I've never seen a three-minute penalty assigned for anything. Two minutes, yes. Five minutes, yes. Game misconducts, yes. Three-minute minors, no.
Now that I type this all out, it doesn't seem like it's going to be a barrel of laughs, does it? I think I may skip the remaining inch.
I'm sure I was thinking of more things to say as I walked home, but they're mostly gone. It's raining. I turned in to my parents' street and saw a flashbulb going off in a window across the way. Looked in and there was a black photographer's umbrella thing and a blonde woman with a camera. Should have been in a movie.
crankygrrl's copy that I have on long-term loan is packed and I do want to make a decent effort with ulysses_project).I think Rachel Gibson may turn out to be my next Katie MacAlister -- marvellous on the cover blurb, disappointing on the inside. I got The Trouble with Valentine's Day out of the library and I'm not sure what irritates me most about the hero -- the Fu Manchu mustache (mentioned twice so far!), the HUMMER (always in capitals), or the incredibly tiresome internal monologue. I have now learned, entirely through the use of the interminable internal monologue in Chapter 3, that our hero was a hockey player; in fact, he was an enforcer, but with skills too; that he lived a wild life, had a child with his girlfriend, and got married; they fought because she was chronically jealous and he played around; he had sex one night with a perfectly nice-seeming woman he met in a bar who then turned into a crazy stalker and eventually shot him; his wife served him with divorce papers while he was lying in his hospital bed; and he has come to small-town Montana to be with his mother and heal. Oh, and to sublimate his sex drive, he ties fishing flies. As a result, he doesn't have sex with women he meets in bars. This last item is the ONLY piece of information I have so far learned from the action in the book. Tedious? You have no idea. I was dragging my way through it. The traffic in front of the Kingston Road streetcar on Saturday was ever so much more enthralling.
Actually the heroine's internal monologue is fairly tiresome too, but it's at least shorter and self-deprecating and funny. Ish. I mean, she's a private investigator in Vegas and she has come to small-town Montana to heal because the last job she did was for a guy who used the information she found to track down his wife and children in a nearby town and horribly murder them.
Oh yeah, and suspect hockey knowledge. I mean, for a Canadian I'm practically a hockey illiterate, but I've watched my share of games and I've never seen a three-minute penalty assigned for anything. Two minutes, yes. Five minutes, yes. Game misconducts, yes. Three-minute minors, no.
Now that I type this all out, it doesn't seem like it's going to be a barrel of laughs, does it? I think I may skip the remaining inch.
I'm sure I was thinking of more things to say as I walked home, but they're mostly gone. It's raining. I turned in to my parents' street and saw a flashbulb going off in a window across the way. Looked in and there was a black photographer's umbrella thing and a blonde woman with a camera. Should have been in a movie.
