New cups and buttery fiction.

Was drinking espresso at 1842 this morning. They’ve got some new cups to replace all the chipped, cracked ones they had before. I didn’t hear the story on this, but all the other ones were damaged, either smashed by clumsy customers, or broken in the dishwasher. For a good three weeks, they served espresso these tiny paper cups. I kept wanting to ask for a wee lid to put on the cups.
Finished up Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End, and am back on the Carl Hiaasen wagon with Basket Case. So far, so good — a nice light break from Clarke’s book. It seems my reading patterns are starting to look like monthly biorhythms charts (and all the hoo-hah they represent). Over the past couple of months, I’ve been reading Carl Hiaasen, Arthur C. Clarke, Christopher Moore, John Wyndham, Carl Hiaasen, Anne Rice, John Wyndham, Eric Garcia, Anne Rice, Eric Garcia, Matt Ruff, H.G. Wells, Douglas Coupland, Matt Ruff … wow. I figured I’d read a few more quirky, humourous, genre-defying novels, and then dig into some heavy science fiction. Maybe some Tom Robbins, and then Ayn Rand.
Actually, many of the non-science-fiction novels are from R’s discard shelf. She burns through light fiction like a hot knife through something soft and oily. I figured it was time to dig into the pile before it went back to the library.