I’ve tentatively decided to engage in the ultimate exercise in arrogance – I’m going to presume you want my opinion about the books I’ve read. You guessed it – this is my first book review. I promise to keep it brief.
The latest book in my reading binge was classified as science fiction, but that doesn’t really do it justice. Slow River is not your father’s Sci Fi thriller. For starters, it’s not a thriller. It’s three stories told at once, about the three lives lived by an abducted woman in the near future: her pre-abduction life of privilege, her post-escape life in hiding, and her current attempts to reconcile the two.
This was not one of my favorites, but it came oh so close. Good characters and a good story make a good combination, but this isn’t for folks looking for a story that grabs you by the throat from the first page on. I had to pamper this one for a bit, but it paid off after a minimal investment of my time.
Since all events are now measured in terms of how they relate to my rash, this tale is right smack in the middle of Genesis – based on the events of three weeks ago.
In the beginning his skin was void of blemishes or imperfections, and the Lord said, “let there be a rash,” and there was a rash, and it was most assuredly not good. On the second day the Lord said, “let he on whom I’ve bestowed this rash go to Busch Gardens,” and he went to Busch Gardens, and that too was not good. Later that same day the Lord saw that he on whom he’d bestowed this rash and sent to Busch Gardens was thirsty, and said, “Let Busch Gardens give them their choice of free beer,” and there was Bare Knuckle Stout, and it did not look very good. Finally, the Lord saw he on whom he’d bestowed this rash, sent to Busch Gardens, and given Bare Knuckle Stout – had a daughter whose curiosity threatened to overwhelm the goodness of his creation, and said, “let her have a sip of this Bare Knuckle Stout and thou shall see this curiosity vanish!” – and she did, and it most assuredly did vanish, and it was finally good.
So I’ve beaten the yogurt issue to death? You’ve got something better to do with your time? Go ahead, read another site. OOOO! I’m so scared. Which is worse: cold or cure? Are you going to eat that? My keys to a good cup of yogurt Good sense will only take me so far I am a Yogurt everyman
I’ve been given a hard time, on several fronts, for a little thing called fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the unexpected. Fear of yogurt that is a little more “alive” than I would like. Methinks “fear” is too strong a word for what I felt. I prefer “reasonably cautious,” but others disagree. Perchance, dear reader, you could review my story and decide for yourself?
As previously mentioned, we were fresh out of juice last week. Or was it the week before last? In either case, the power was out and Cheryl had engaged in a day long struggle with the elements to save our perishables. Back and forth she went, from our home to my in-law’s, carting our refrigerated goods around town in search of someplace cold. Each trip lasted fifteen minutes, meaning our food never went more than twenty removed from it’s chilled haven. Ah, but what about that yogurt, you may ask? Everyone swore it would be fine, but I wasn’t convinced. Four heating and cooling cycles sounded like four too many to me. I wouldn’t give those cultured bastards a leg to stand on, let alone twenty minutes at a pop to get their flagella lined up. So there I was at work one day last week, staring at my lunch, suffering the ridicule of my coworkers – afraid of a container of yogurt.
I’ve had food poisoning. Anyone who’s had food poisoning has, at one time in his or her life, supported a patient’s right to die. That rosy color to my cheeks is a sign that my gastro-intestinal system is operating normally. I’d just as soon keep it that way.
The yogurt went in the trash. I lived off Snickers Bars from the vending machine for a week. I still have a tremor occasionally, while my body burns off the excess sugar – but I’d trade clear liquids and bland foods for a case of the shakes any day of the week.