In the age of Babelfish, there is no earthly reason why the new Hello Kitty character should be called Puchi Puchi Wanko. And yet he is.

God, I not only like Kylie Minogue, but also Sophie Ellis-Bextor. What the fuck is going on with me?

Long ago, before graduate school and summarising five books a week by skimming their introductions and conclusions, I read novels. Big, important novels. Novels that made you stay up all night reading them, thrilled to find out what happened next. Now, I read Agatha Christie. I thought I no longer had the ability to read any fiction more challenging than that. (The irony of working in a library is not lost on me, people.) So when I tell you that finally, after Siobhan and others recommended this book to me years and years ago, I read My Year of Meats practically in one sitting, I want you to be duly impressed. I feel like one of those people who was illiterate and can now pick my way through Dick and Jane.

*Great* book, too. I don't know how on earth she managed to combine cross-cultural commentary, a love story, a tale of marital abuse, recipes, and an expose of the American meat industry into one novel. Strange and wonderful.

I have neglected you, blog! I have been bitching about the war elsewhere. It occurs to me that I never really understand what I think about an issue until I argue with someone. 'But you're *wrong*!' is a powerful idea-clarifier.

Crying with laughter. No, seriously. Thank you, Ben.