I'm easily entertained, and so I probably don't make a very good writing critic. But sometimes you find an author that manages to consistently weave intriguing, thought-provoking narratives with believable characters, and tells you about those characters in a way that is itself entertaining. When you read such writers' work, it's immediately apparent that they are a "virtuoso", a class apart. Like a non-guitarist hearing Steve Vai play, you don't have to be aware of the technical details to be impressed by the performance.

Robert A. Heinlein is one of those writers. I read "The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress" several years ago, and liked it so much that I've reread it at least twice since then. I read Starship Troopers last year, which is almost entirely unrelated to the movie and is much better. Last week I picked up my third Heinlein book, "Stranger In A Strange Land", and as I'm working my way through it at a feverish pace I'm remembering once again what captivating stories he writes.

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Last week, after hearing so much about Kurt Vonnegut, I finally went out and bought a few of his books. The first one I read was the one I'd heard mentioned most often in connection with his name: Slaughterhouse-Five. I liked it a lot — he has very clever and appealing ways of saying interesting, unexpected things.

With Slaughterhouse quickly consumed, I eagerly started the other book I'd bought, Timequake. This book is much more recent, and the difference is astounding. Whereas Slaughterhouse, published in 1972, read like a really creative novel, Timequake (1996) feels like going to a friend's house and getting stuck listening to their grandfather ramble on and on about whatever comes to mind while you smile and nod politely.

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The last portion of my birthday present finally arrived in the mail yesterday: The Complete Calvin And Hobbes. My god is it massive. The shipping label says it's 24 lb. I guess this isn't a book to carry around in your bookbag and read on the subway; it's more of a book to sit down at a (sturdy) table with a glass of port for a reading session.

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Last weekend I went to Charleston to visit Jessie. She was having a "Periodic Table Of The Elements" party. The idea for the party is genius, and I had an idea for a fun costume (the excitingly historied-Seaborgium", interpreted as a robotic sea monster) but I ended up not having time to put it together. Jessie took me to Party City and we settled on a Noble Gas. The day was saved.

Originally the plan was for Meg and Meej to make the drive from Clemson for the party, but Meej ended up having schoolwork to do, so they couldn't make it.

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Today I stopped by Borders to pick up the new Death Cab For Cutie CD and came out with five CDs and a book. Among them is the soundtrack for Battlestar Galactica season one. With this act, it is clear that my nerdliness has apparently spread throughout the brain and is now unresectable.

The Battlestar soundtrack is so good though! It's somewhat reminiscent of Gladiator's, except without the full orchestra. And anyone who can tell me with a straight face that the Gladiator soundtrack is not incredible deserves both my admiration and my pity for their ability to cling to their misguided position in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

I've never been very good at following that rule. Often, when I run out of things to read, I will walk into a bookstore and pick up a book that has an interesting cover and take it home. Surprisingly, it hasn't failed me yet.

Well, until now, that is.

For a few months now I've had one of these random purchases laying around. It's called Signals, by Kevin D. Randle. I finally gave it a try today, and man is it bad. The plot itself is kind of interesting, if somewhat cliché: SETI detects signals from some object fifty light years away and headed towards Earth, and the world rushes to figure out how to deal with the possibility of alien visitors.

But the writing. Oh, the writing. It sounds like the work of a ninth grader. I didn't get more than two pages into the book before deciding to write this entry.

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