Okay, DH, so I was sort of with you at the beginning. I was amused by or interested in watching you create a tale that seemed to be a love child of thOkay, DH, so I was sort of with you at the beginning. I was amused by or interested in watching you create a tale that seemed to be a love child of the Lost Gen and existentialist authors that instead turned out a rebelliously nostalgic Romantic, a perverted Wordsworth in a Bacchanalian temple. I rolled my eyes at, yet went along with, the endless repetition, of "everything is nothing," by your twit of a main character, Connie, or at poor Sir Clifford who builds endless castles of theories in the air to escape every basic feeling in his life, or even at first the brooding, fighting "hero," in Oliver Mellors. I excused it as Lost Gen disillusionment, a depiction of people afraid to feel after the masses' passion overflowed in the horror that was WWI. I was even sort of rooting for you against the cold, cold people who can't let go enough to feel something. The one thing I did like was the way you could conjure up ecstatic joy in earthiness. I'm on board with that.
But unfortunately, after the love scene/pagan naming ceremony of which we shall not speak, and the comments about how women with "too much will" are lesbians and/or invalid women somehow, you made the ecstatic love you celebrated absolutely ridiculous by the end. I can't even bring myself to discuss that last scene in the book, but if you've read it you know what our payoff was. Really? Really?
The obscenity trials are the best thing that ever happened to this book....more
Super charming- more so than even some of the Bridgerton books (although Lady D appears in this one with yOne (run on) line baby feeding review, 2022:
Super charming- more so than even some of the Bridgerton books (although Lady D appears in this one with yet another conveniently handsome relative)- so much so that I just “sure, why not?”-d the ending when I got there, as improbable as it was. Fantastic Act 2 scene 2 of Midsummer levels of wind up and fun towards the end. ...more
Stream of consciousness late night baby feeding review 2022: (the series continues!)
While I continue to find Trollope’s authoritative authorial voice Stream of consciousness late night baby feeding review 2022: (the series continues!)
While I continue to find Trollope’s authoritative authorial voice charming and soothing, I liked this one the least of the Barchester series so far. I think it’s due to three factors.
1- the pacing problems evident at the end of Doctor Thorne & Towers we’re even more pronounced here. For ex: The renewed bills that were renewed and then weren’t but then were went on for literally hundreds of pages and filled far too many of them, and had no suspense because we know it’s never gonna happen to the hero. 2- no one here makes me look forward to their plot reappearing. Even my fav Miss Dunstable was somehow more boring in this- tho I appreciated the time taken for her to get her HEA! I also hated the reappearance of a problem from Doctor Thorne which was that the romantic heroine- Lucy in this case, Mary in that- started off as awesome and witty and ironic and interesting, but then as soon as the lurrrrvvvee plot commenced she got all martyr-y and boring. Why did Trollope do this to his best ladies?! 3- the societal commentary was far less interesting here than in the first two. This felt like a a scold-y story about never maxing out your credit cards or forgetting that the house always wins at the casino. Like undoubtedly good life lessons but he also pulled his punches at the end so they didn’t land and again so much repeating himself.
This took me forever to listen to despite Timothy West’s excellent narration- I found myself listening to podcasts instead. I might take a break before book five/six so I can appreciate the end of the chronicles much more- pushing through four in a row may have been too much of a good thing! ...more
This is a book about 19th century cancel culture and Trollope’s position that we should feel bad about the questions it mOne line baby feeding review:
This is a book about 19th century cancel culture and Trollope’s position that we should feel bad about the questions it makes Nice White Men ask themselves.
The eat the rich of faerie tales. This one focuses on a maid who is very good at stitching and a faerie who is not very good at helping. Together theyThe eat the rich of faerie tales. This one focuses on a maid who is very good at stitching and a faerie who is not very good at helping. Together they both try to help each other through a deal where the faerie helps her marry a gentleman she’s in love with and where she embroiders the world’s most beautiful coat in return. But only because a faerie must ask for something in return you see! He wouldn’t otherwise- because he wants to learn how to be virtuous. Really virtuous, human style. Unfortunately his attempts cause many mishaps and hjinx ensue. And he is wholly charming at it!
I honestly just found this too preachy to be as absorbing or lovely as the first one. I felt lectured to and hectored rather than swept away - especially as the story went on. There’s something stern about it’s morality. Stern and self-approving and hard backed chair Protestant which my Catholic raised soul has never responded to. It dissipates when Blackthorn the faerie is about, or in the Lady Hollowvale scenes and the ones with the lovely neighbor guy- Mr Jessen I think his name was- that I wished we’d had a book about instead. I’d loved to have read his and Lydia’s story. I just… I dunno, I agree with the politics in theory I just can’t take it that far up into my face.
Ah well- perhaps the magic will return in 3?...more
This is not nearly as good as Midnight Library. The whole thing felt like it was happening so far at a distance. I couldn’t connect to the characters This is not nearly as good as Midnight Library. The whole thing felt like it was happening so far at a distance. I couldn’t connect to the characters at all. I thought the main character was just wildly dumb on a couple of points, too. The plot went on forever with nothing and then super quickly resolved in a way that did not give it the four hundred years of weight it was supposed to have. There are a couple of pages of lovely musing about life, some even better ones about memory. But this was far more forgettable than Midnight Library. It might make a beautiful movie though if they rework it a bit- we’ll see what Cumberbatch does with it. ...more
"She imagined, now, what it would be like to accept herself completely. Every mistake she had ever made. Every mark on her body. Every dream she hadn "She imagined, now, what it would be like to accept herself completely. Every mistake she had ever made. Every mark on her body. Every dream she hadn't reached or pain she had felt. Every lust or longing she had suppressed.
She imagined accepting it all. The way she accepted nature. The way she accepted a glacier or a puffin or the breach of a whale.
She imagined seeing herself as just another brilliant freak of nature. Just another sentient animal, trying their best.
And in doing so, she imagined what it was like to be free."
If you like that, if you felt the tears prick at your eyes unexpectedly, if you stopped a moment because you felt that, you need this book. I sure did. Like I said in my last review, I am wintering. If you are wintering too, this is a book to take to that space. If you're not, this could be a book that's a much needed breath between the acts....more
Gothic popcorn from the first to the last. And I’m pretty sure that was the point, if my understanding of Wilkie Collins’ deal is correct. Ghosts and Gothic popcorn from the first to the last. And I’m pretty sure that was the point, if my understanding of Wilkie Collins’ deal is correct. Ghosts and murders and spies and arson and street fighting and doomed love, oh my! The promise of all that was the string that reeled me in at first (and boy did it deliver!), but it was the narrative structure that made me stay. I loved the passing of narrators and different document forms as we went, and how that became part of the story itself and made it feel as close to a documentary as possible (or as much as you can with the amount of cloaks and daggers and Drama involved here.) I loved how good he was at altering the narrator’s voice so truly none of them sounded the same- as anyone who follows me knows, I love a good in charge narrator.
And some of these characters! Oh some were the cardboard gothic cutouts you think they will be (Laura is a notable and unsurprising- annoyingly unsurprising-example). But others are wonderfully well done. Count Fosco, at least for most of it, twirled his mustache *and* felt frighteningly intelligent and menacing (I just wish he hadn’t undone all of his work on that at the end). Mr Fairlie the viciously selfish invalid. Gilmore the at-the-end-of-his-rope lawyer. Mrs Catherick the crawling up by her bootstraps small town witch and a half. And Marian! My glorious, glorious Marian! The true hero of this novel- something the main character himself closes the book admitting. She’s too fucking good for the lot of them. I wanted to scream with frustration by the end about what became of her. Did anyone else tear their hair out a little every time Walter and Marian talked about Laura and managed her like the helpless child she was, then had Walter sing Marian’s praises to the sky, then turn around and go weak at the knees for the lady-child Laura again? I mean I didn’t need them to get together because Marian is too good for him too, but ughhhh there must be good feminist as well as LGBT readings of this book out there. I feel like Wilkie had her talk about being “just a woman,” so often just to calm people down that she knew her place- she’d be threateningly independent and intelligent otherwise. I guess it’s like in Middlemarch where people love Dorothea and say she should have been better known and more people been acquainted with her awesomeness- before Eliot tells us “but no one could say exactly how that should have happened,” and then the novel just ends on that note. Just “Here’s your HEA, or is it?!? Enjoy this extremely uncomfortable fly in your ointment, where it will and should keep showing up forever.” Probably not a coincidence that this was written around the same time.
My one thing was that I think the bit at the end with Fosco and the societies and all that nonsense was where it jumped the shark for me. I was fine with him running off into the sunset- I didn’t need international conspiracies/secret spy jujitsu in our finale. I know it was one of the 19th century bogeymans in the newspapers at the time tho, so maybe it was a big crowd pleasing banger when this came out. I’d buy that. I bet serialized versions of this appeared alongside accounts of assassinations and new nation states saber rattling.
Super fun though! I did it half audiobook, half on paper, and it was excellent both ways. A great leisurely evening read....more
I am wintering. That’s the wheel of the year I'm on. As a teacher, I don't get to winter in the actual winter. From September to late May, I sometimesI am wintering. That’s the wheel of the year I'm on. As a teacher, I don't get to winter in the actual winter. From September to late May, I sometimes feel that I hang in suspension above the usual round of life. I become a functional being- I sleep, I pour everything I have into work ten hours a day, six days a week, I do whatever I can convince my body and mind to do to recover after that each day, I collapse full out on Saturdays, and start the cycle once more. I feel out of time in the worst way-it's the opposite of the cycle that this book tries to remind you of, to push us all to remember. I don't have time to pause to mark the passage of time- other than by working even more because interim reports are due or papers must be returned. It's the time of the endless to-do list. I sometimes feel I become a human task completion machine for several months a year. It's like I put myself and my life on hold and go into a mental, spiritual sleep for nine months just to keep up with the constant demand, then get thrown abruptly up on shore again and my brain's like, "Oh right then...who are you again? What were we thinking before all that happened to us? What threads did I set down just...when was that? Surely just yesterday?”
And then... I winter all summer. Which is why I recognized what May was talking about almost immediately- and identified with her again and again as she went from "Indian Summer" to "Thaw." The start of the cycle where you can't quite stop yourself from continuing to work although you're actually quite done with your tasks. The next stage of guilt about finally getting yourself to stop- although again, no one is asking you to do otherwise. The stage after that where you go into total mental and physical collapse and all the illnesses that have been lurking just under the surface, suppressed by adrenaline and necessity, come to the surface. The slow, halting first attempts at getting up again, and then falling down again because you tried to 0 to 60 it, because that's how you operate. Then the gradual ability to think again returns- to *really* think- to string thoughts together- and the patience and stillness to notice things worth thinking about. Then the beauty returns again, finally. Slowly. And the self, equally hesitant, haltingly, begins to peek out, and remind you who you really are once more. Or who you think you are? It's hard to tell after nine months. It's all shifted a little bit- and you're not sure why.
I've been through this cycle nine times now. I fought it harder the first few times. My review of Possession is a round of me fighting being utterly subsumed in Year 3 or 4. I have found it harder to fight the last few times- and I worry about the accumulating alterations over the year- how my school year persona, as off to one side as I attempt to keep her..well she seeps in. There are parts of her I like- and lots I don't. I want to fight it harder. I try to like I did in my twenties. It gets harder every year-but I'm determined not to give up.
Anyway- that's why I winter every summer. I didn't have this name for it before this book- but it is the perfect one. It's the language I've wanted to justify how deeply underground I go during this time, the random emotional outbursts I have, the amount of quiet I need, the inconsistent personas I display, the ideas I cycle through and discard. And how, somehow, it puts me back together again ready to face another year of teaching with a serene smile on my face.
What does wintering feel like? Well.. it feels... it feels kind of like this:
"...winter sleeps are the best... when I wake in the night, the dark seems more profound and velvety than usual, almost infinite. Winter is a season that invites me to rest well, when I am allowed to retreat and be quietly separate. .. There is not enough night left for us. We have lost our true instincts for darkness, it's invitation to spend some time in the proximity of our dreams. Our personal winters are so often accompanied by insomnia: perhaps we're drawn towards that unique space of intimacy and contemplation, darkness and silence, without really knowing what we're seeking.. Sleep is not a dead space, but a doorway to a different kind of consciousness- one that is reflective and restorative, full of tangential thoughts. In winter, we are invited into a particular mode of sleep: not a regimented eight hours, but a slow, ambulatory process in which waking thoughts merge with dreams and space is made in the blackest hours to repair the fragmented narratives of our days.
Yet we are pushing away this innate skill we have for digesting the difficult parts of life. My own midnight terrors vanish when I turn insomnia into a watch: a claimed sacred space in which I have nothing to do but contemplate. Here, I am offered a place in between, like finding a hidden door, the stuff of dreams. Even dormice know how to do it: they sleep, then wake awhile and tend to business, before surrendering back to sleep.
Over and over again, we find that winter offers us liminal spaces to inhabit. Yet still we refuse them. The work of the cold season is to learn to welcome them."
I found it so telling she acts on this first by attending a St. Lucy's Day mass in London- a ritual that's not her own, in a language she doesn't quite understand literally, but understands completely symbolically, a place that forces her to be quiet and notice beauty all around her. I just... this is what I do, to try to hold onto myself in the early part of the school year. I've become a pointed, giant fan of Michaelmas and St. Crispin's Day every year. I bake a blackberry pie or make jam and share the Michaelmas story every year- I've felt the need to share that story, in fact, every year since my first year of teaching. I started baking a few years after that. I share the Henry V Crispin's Day speech every year in late October- just before Halloween, in fact. I always end up connecting with everyone I know online who is a Shakespeare fan- it's the one day a year we check in with each other, on that post. I set reminders on my phone- it's my last desperate gasping attempts to hold onto time before it gets away from me. I love these rituals- I'm still me, a little bit, in fall. It hasn't quite all faded out yet. One of my first free days around the winter break is almost always the solstice. My ritual is to surround myself with poetry on the winter solstice (a genre that I rarely read the rest of the year, by the way)- It's a big deep breath in as I welcome myself back for two weeks. I'm Catholic- I always thought it had to do with that. I stopped practicing a long time ago, but it runs deep- but now I think maybe it's about wintering. It's about pushing out as much life as I can before I feel totally snuffed out.
Anyway- this is a long way of saying... I felt her. I felt this. I am doing this. July 4th was my small light in the dark- my St. Lucy's. I'm probably somewhere around the solstice in the cycle of wintering now. I have turned the year, as they say then. The glimmers of life are returning. Now, slowly, and in fits, I hope, comes the thaw....more
As the election approached, and then dragged on... and on... and the school year of distance learning began and then dragged on.. and on... and as theAs the election approached, and then dragged on... and on... and the school year of distance learning began and then dragged on.. and on... and as the holidays approached and we found out we couldn’t spend them with anyone again.. and again...
Well. Somehow I found myself reading 20+ romance novels through it all. Worked my way through the entire Wallflower-Hathaway-Ravenel Kleypas series and then topped it off with Eloisa James’s fairy tale series, and a re-read of several of the Bridgerton books as the Netflix series approached. I was like a woman possessed- kind of like earlier this year when the pandemic first hit and I devoured 15 books in a cozy mystery series night after night long past the point where I couldn’t see any flaws, long past the point of being annoyed with the main characters and the author, and yet somehow couldn’t stop reading.
Yeah I had another wave of that from late October to winter break. I dunno what it is about this pandemic and my reading that does this to me. It’s finally thrown me up and out on the shore of it again, as it did with the first wave when that was over sometime in May.
Grateful for these absolutely formulaic, problematic, sometimes indistinguishable tales. Grateful for them providing just the right amount of interest to get absorbed in or skim through while keeping my mind off of other things. Grateful for them helping me to sleep so I could get up the next morning with less terrifying, slightly more real smile for my job. I’ve had more and more trouble sleeping lately- so if I stay up late at least I have these to keep me company until I can make myself pass out. Yes, yes, again, I am aware there are some problems with these and I know I should write about that but I’m sure someone else on another review has. (As you can tell this isn’t really a review of the book and if you couldn’t tell that by now don’t yell at me in the comments about not reviewing the book. Come on.)
I’m certainly not going to review all twenty of these. I picked this one to stand for them all because I found the hero quite charming, and the heroine one of those competent take care of the family ones I like. I like that she also has significant relationships with people other than the hero, and especially her effed up brother. As for the series as a whole, verdicts are: -hated the first Ravenel book lady, the deeply effed book about the sick Hathaway sister that follows this one, and the Winterbourne guy from the second Ravenel book who I liked from book 1 and then became awful. Leo, the Hathaway brother & his bride also annoy the crap out of me. Also the first Wallflower lady- Annabelle? Ugh, what a snot of a person. -liked Pandora & her husband- Ravenel #3. Husband has a nice well rounded character- one of the few. -loved Beatrix, the final Hathaway sister & her PTSD soldier. Probably the best of the bunch. -liked West and his bride (fourth Ravenel book) -Daisy and Lillian, the second and third Wallflowers, were ok! Daisy way better than Lillian. I don’t believe Lillian’s husband would be that into her. -St Vincent & Evie also make no sense and become totally different people from previous Wallflower books to make it work. But after they become those different people- sure why not? Works great. -liked Cassandra’s husband. Good firm characterization. Poossibly autistic? Def neurodiverse anyway. Found Cassandra herself rather cloying. Ugh that kid she got obsessed with. Women proving how great they are by caring for kids and making men prove themselves by doing the same is one of my least favorite romance novel tropes. -I think I liked Daisy’s husband?
Anyway. Thanks for getting me through months six, seven and eight of quarantine and the hardest part of the school year, books!...more
This was... I don’t even know yet. A delight. The quiet sort. A combination of Gormenghast with the best of Valente’s labyrinthine poetic escapes withThis was... I don’t even know yet. A delight. The quiet sort. A combination of Gormenghast with the best of Valente’s labyrinthine poetic escapes with the most intriguing of Strange and Norrell’s footnotes. It was the deep love of words and knowledge of Possession roiling under a surface of apparent calm. It’s deep turn inwards was the perfect fantasia for quarantine, the sort that makes magic out of a prison, that makes a religion out of limitations and symbols, and meaning out of what is left to us to access of the world. It is hushed, mature acceptance that stays steadfast against outrage, it is about having a steady, firm center of yourself that can’t be penetrated or undermined by anyone, at last. It’s about the many people we become over the course of our lives, and the very different truths we care about when we become them and leave our last skin behind, slipping out of it like selkies who put their skins in the trunk for good, just needing to look now and again to Remember (as our main character himself would spell it). It’s like... it’s like if American Gods grew up and became a much wiser grandmother that didn’t care about the day-to-day headlines, one who has earned the right to be beyond it all. It’s... well it’s a spell that I recommend that you don’t fight. I read it in one sitting as darkness fell on one of the liminal days of the year- in the between space between finishing and becoming again, when everything was quiet, even, for once, my mind. And it was perfect....more
So this first part is a little spoilery, but only if you’ve read other Christies and also know what I mean, so avert your eyes spoiler pearl clutchersSo this first part is a little spoilery, but only if you’ve read other Christies and also know what I mean, so avert your eyes spoiler pearl clutchers!
... This one is kind of like Roger Ackroyd, only instead of the trick of that one happening to the reader, it happens to Poirot AND the reader, and Poirot figures it out only just before we do at the end. It’s far less elegant than that one too- lots and lots of mess and distraction on top of the real thing for you to bite on. Three ring circus complete with gasps and cries up to the last few pages. It would make a great silent film with big reactions and music like they make fun of in Singin in the Rain. Or a Clue-like stage play.
I personally bit on one of the last partially true red herrings to be thrown out to the crowd, so at least I wasn’t totally off! Christie also made me feel sort of bad for judging one character so I’m glad she got the happy ending she deserved!
I did get sort of tired of it by the end though. I may need a break from Poirot. ...more
I finished this one months ago. I’ve been struggling with what to say about it. I was drawn in initially by a very well chosen excerpt in the GuardianI finished this one months ago. I’ve been struggling with what to say about it. I was drawn in initially by a very well chosen excerpt in the Guardian that I found so thoughtful and atmospheric that I ordered it in hardback from the UK before it was even out here. And it did remain both thoughtful and atmospheric. And honest, which is essential for this sort of thing. And on top of that she’s excellent at depicting how place determines all in this tale- it absolutely envelopes her life. Eats it alive, really. But before we get to the drawbacks of that... there was some magic to it. It wasn’t hard to feel yourself out on a wind-whipped, rocky, misty field with her in an early morning’s bitter chill. And maybe she was so good at it that that’s the reason it was published.
Because otherwise this was just... relentless. This is a story about how a vague yuppie dream of purity and returning to the earth and community and whatever other Lifetime small-towns-are-best thing got crushed beneath the heel of granite-hard reality. And there is no adorable arc where it’s hard for a bit but then she proves herself as tough as nails as everyone else and then she’s a success overnight! Nor does she get taken under the wing of a local until everyone is scolded into accepting her and she becomes a part of the local community like anyone else.
(Spoilers I guess if you care about that sort of thing for this kind of book, from here on out)
Instead... it’s hard work, she proves herself tough as nails... and her reward is for a bunch of men to curse her, show up drunk at her house to intimidate her, belittle her, possibly murder her prize-winning sheep and then get up and do it all over again the next day. She and her husband make repairs, make their rundown farmhouse somewhat livable again... and then he leaves her because he can’t take the monotony and isolation- brings out the absolute (cheating, mean) worst in him. She gets taken under the wing of exactly one local and it leads to... nothing more than that. And then the nice lady fucking dies! So does her kind husband! She gets a dog out of it, I guess. She desperately wants a big farming family of kids... turns out she can’t have them! She considers giving in at one point and going back to the mainland and like... she literally can’t. She’s kind of financially trapped. Even her parents suck! No bright spot with their visits.
Like... fuck, man. It was really really rough. And she seems to get nothing much out of it except... the ability to endure I guess? The ability to keep going? She finds solace in morning swims and dog walks and there are a few people talking to her, by the end, after 15 years. But not many. And they seem to turn on a nasty fucking dime when they feel like it. And I guess there are rewards in just still moving after all that. In making it work and pushing through. I remember feeling some level of that in my early twenties in teaching. But fuuuucckkkk. This is a whole different beast. It’s desperately sad. I don’t even know if I believe her conclusion that tries to suggest she’s come to a kind of peace by the end. It seems more like resignation and acceptance.
I suppose the more power to her for writing it all down to try to make sense of it- which absolutely feels like the purpose of this- but I don’t think she did. On balance, I do not understand why she kept making these choices (at least before she had to) and I, again, don’t believe in any sort of narrative conclusion she had to come to because it was a book. I wanted to buy into this. “One woman’s struggle to make it and find herself in the process...! The beauty of nature and silence...!” But it’s like someone took that and made it grey and dirty and.. I don’t know.. industrial somehow. Just something that happens to you and keeps happening and you’re reporting it and just end it because it’s time to end.
I kind of had the same feeling I did after My Year of Rest and Relaxation. Like... it was well written, I get the point, there were moments of beautiful prose and enveloping atmosphere, pieces of truth... but I don’t know what I got out of either of them except the confirmation that some stuff is the kind of sad that doesn’t have a point. It just is and you keep going. And that’s true. But I don’t know what to do with a book about it....more
If I weren’t on my phone and could insert gifs right now, here’s where the John Mulaney, “But we don’t have time to unpack all that,” one would go. I If I weren’t on my phone and could insert gifs right now, here’s where the John Mulaney, “But we don’t have time to unpack all that,” one would go. I do not understand all the 4 and 5 star ratings for this. The writing is wooden at best. The characterization is frequently lazy, often gendered, and the descriptions are overwrought, to say the least. The psychological “insights” are more than a little on the nose and if we’re allowed to call psychotherapy ideas basic bitches, these were them. It makes so much sense his training is in screenwriting. The exposition felt as workmanlike as you’d expect background notes for the beginning of a script to be and honestly it felt like a movie that was for some reason a book. Some of these characters make absolutely bizarre decisions in order to make the necessary set up work, ignoring giant red flags everywhere. And if you had erased the author’s name and picture I would have been able to tell you this was written by a man from a mile away. It exudes toxic masculinity. And no, I absolutely do not care that the twist could explain some of this, because it was so bad I nearly gave up on it before I got there. It also now makes so much sense why every single blurb and piece of marketing was about “oh you won’t believe the twist!” because that’s about the only way I can see someone-someone far more generous than me who didn’t have several evenings of her reading time wasted- forgiving the way this was written. And you know what? The twist wasn’t that great! Agatha Christie did the same thing in one of her most famous novels and much much better than this- so it isn’t mindblowing. (If you read this book and Christie you know what I mean- I’d say the name of the Christie but it’s a giant spoiler and I don’t want to use the tag- besides, you know what I mean.) Sometimes I wish authors would admit how big their ideas are- edited down, this would have made a strong Law and Order episode or one of those prestige serial killer dramas’ No Exit episodes. This book wasted my time and annoyed me for 200 pages, then finally got momentum, and then wound up underwhelming anyway. The rare failed GR rec from my friends list. But I’m sure the next one will be better- you guys have a pretty high batting average. ...more
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