The late-shift DJ promised that the new Fiona Apple CD is good. Judging from the first single playing right now (Oh Sailor), I'd like to think that Ms Apple still has the flats and minors intact, but with two or three more rays of sunshine. Uncanny combination. Wicked.

xoxo
Guilty pleasures of late:
1) The new Lacoste ad with the beautiful man having not a care in the world if the waves stain his impeccable white trousers (hey, I did spray on the new Lacoste Essential fragrance, right?);
2) Hillary Duff's Wake Up (yes, this is why it's called a guilty pleasure, alright?);
3) (not-so-guilty pleasure) The O.C. (now durga will really laugh);
4) (not-at-all-guilty pleasure) five to six cups of Tatay's coffee daily.

Now, this list is practically useless, isn't it?


xoxo
One frustration of mine is that I can't remember my dreams even if I try to recall them as soon as I wake up. But the dreams I've been having of late are too vivid they 'crossover' to subsequent dreams. Both involve water. The first had still waters, as in water in an aquarium, discovered underneath unstable bathroom tiles. The second contained water gushing out of a broken pipe, located near the ceiling, creating a mini-waterfall.

More on the details in another post.


xoxo
Time's 100 Best Novels list is out. Cheaters, they made it exclusive in their website, so here:
http://www.time.com/time/2005/100books/the_complete_list.html

Two primary considerations (as if they're already anticipating the usual protests): all novels published from 1923 (the year Time was founded by Henry Luce) to the present and (the major clincher I daresay) all novels written in English. Therefore, according to the listmakers, no Ulysses for you (published in 1922) and no One Hundred Years of Solitude. Now, isn't that just convenient?

Some selections I picked out for comment:
1. Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume - yes, every schoolgirl's (at least those who had a steady diet of Scholastic Books growing up) guide to their periods, introducing us to the all-important chant ("We must, we must, we must increase our bust!").
2. Atonement by Ian McEwan - Lord, never got anywhere with this novel but I truly adored his other novel Amsterdam.
3. The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen - I know this is a worthy read but it's too Americana suburbia langour for me.
4. Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon - Just looking at the thickness of this book harasses me.
5. White Noise by Don DeLillo - Was going steadily at it, then the drifter bug hit me again.
6. Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller - I promise to read and actually finish you before I die.
7. To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf - Virginia Woolf redeemed me but this one - not quite.
8. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut - the second Vonnegut book I bought and I never looked back. Of course, after realizing that Kurt Vonnegut is really not one of my writers, I've bequeather my entire collection to the Sasha.

Just noticed that, save for Are You There God... and Slaughterhouse-Five, this is a list of unfinished books. Which reminded me that I confessed to A. last night that fiction never really took hold of my imagination. Rather hard to admit.