Belinda and Randomness
The world has gone crazy tonight: Cornroyo actually lost a game; Stef and I almost got locked in the GM parking lot while trying to drop off her car; and, most terribly, the youth of America has voted Carrie Underwood their new American Idol. Lynda at So Very Posh says we’re all going to die and I think maybe she might be right. At least the Pistons are pulling closer to the Miami Shaqs. That’s what’s really important.
I started re-reading Belinda by Anne Rice today. This was sort of the result of the book-tagging meme I did the other day, but also the result of me having nothing new to read and the book staring at me more intently than that old Nostradamus book with the beady eyes on the cover. It’s really silly that I love this little trifle of a book so much, but I do. I’m not a big fan of Rice’s vampire work, but, for some reason, I just can’t get enough of this minor little novel of hers.
Part of it is the setting—I seem to love any book that takes place in San Francisco, nowadays—and part of it is that it’s about a lecherous 40-something painter painting and sleeping with a teenaged runaway who happens to be the daughter of a famous actress and a gay hairstylist. The setup is perfectly absurd but, since it’s set in the 1980s, and since it’s so well written, it’s easy to suspend disbelief.
I’m not doing it justice—I rarely ever do books justice in the space, so I’m not at all surprised—but that’s fine, I guess. It’s certainly not a book for everyone, so I shouldn’t try to sell it to everyone. I should just sell it to myself and, since I’m already sold, I shouldn’t bother with the effort.
Ah, what a perfectly absurd entry.