Book-readin'.

I just read the latest Oprah Book Club epic "Pillars of the Earth" by Ken Follett. It's almost 1000 pages. With very few pictures, I might add. The book is about the building of a church in the 1100's. I know - spellbinding, right? Actually - think of it like the modern day Extreme Makeover Home Edition. Except with fewer bullhorns and no weepy designers with unnaturally white teeth. In fact, teeth were a luxury in the 1100's. And there is no way they could build something in a week back then, unless it was made of treebark and horse poo. And even then - poo is really not synonymous with structural integrity. Please do not ask me how I know this.

Anyway, it's a really good book. There are a few saucy sex scenes in it. And when I read them, I wondered if Oprah tagged the pages with her 3M Post-It hilighter pen. Then casually left the book in Steadman's bedroom. Because you so know they have separate bedrooms. And Steadman sleeps in a single bed. Shaped like a car.

But a book that big needs to come with a warning. Cuz unless you are halfway through, the weight of the book is uneven and becomes an effort to keep hoisted up on one side or the other. My fragile milky-white wrists almost couldn't take the abuse. In fact, I was almost crushed by the weight a time or two. But I remembered those stories of superhuman strength, like when a mom lifted a car to free her trapped kid underneath - and I grimaced through the crushing pain and managed to hold the book upright. People, it wasn't easy and I may have sustained some degree of nerve damage. But I did it.

I just started a new (way smaller) book: Kentucky Ham by William S. Burroughs Jr. Corn has a neat collection of famous works/writers I have never been exposed to, and when I read their stuff I always end up wanting to know more about their personal lives, because half the time that's more interesting than the book itself.

Like - this dude - Burroughs Jr. His dad was the famous writer William S. Burroughs Sr. (duh!) and one night the latter was at a party with his wife and they decided a game of William Tell would be a reasonable way to have a good time. She put an apple on her head. He shot her. He missed. After her death Will senior became a writer. And so did his son later on in life. And now they're both dead cuz they boozed too much.

Writers are crazy fookers.

And now for no apparent reason, a display of unsuspecting dog heads.

Please, no apples on heads.