I’ve been reading a lot of older SF and fantasy, having completed Kurd Lasswitz’ Two Planets and Esther Friesner’s Up the Wall, and now a third of the way through The Rediscovery of Man, NESFA’s collection of the complete short fiction of Cordwainer Smith. I’m also reading The Rocket Pioneers, a book undeservedly tossed out by the local library, with lots of info on rocketry in the 19th and 20th century.
In the Queue I’ve got more Friesner and a random stack of other books.
My current bedtime book is The Decameron. I’m up to day…four? The day when they all tell depressing love stories.
I recently decided on the specifics for my thesis topic, so I’m ramping up on the Puerto Rican/Nuyorican books. Right now I’m in the middle of the beginning of América’s Dream by Esmeralda Santiago. I had to put it down for a while because América’s abusive jerk of a boyfriend just beat the snot out of her and took her daughter. :mad:
In my Series reading, I’m working my way through Chapter House Dune and hoping that they’ll explain the axolotl tanks more than vaguely. 
Yesterday I curled up with The Vampire Lestat for an afternoon and relived the days when Anne Rice could write.
Thanks for the tip, jsgoddess. The novellas books is The Train Now Departing, and is just two novellas; they’re not mysteries in any way, except maybe mysteries of the characters.
I’m also reading Forrest Gump, which I didn’t know that the movie was based on a novel; it’s pretty funny reading! It’s a wonder I don’t get the books I’m reading all mixed up, though, especially when I’ve got more than two or three going at the same time.
I’ve had this book for about a week, purchased at the last minute while checking out at Borders. I started to read it based on your comment above. OH my God!!! I just got to the toity jar part and truely have tears running down my face. And hear I thought my 50’s childhood was weird. 
sinjin
hear–>here Duh
I just finished five of the original Tom Swift books that my father-in-law kept for ages and gave to me. Racist, of course, and a bit spotty. The last one, from the 30s. has Tom sponsoring a bloodless revolution in a South American country to get some wood. It then goes bad and Tom goes “oh, well.” Now I know where American foreign policy came from.
I am out of American books right now, so I am reduced to rereading W.T. Sherman’s Memoirs. He writes real good. That and some Spanish textbooks.
Whiskey Sour, by J.A. Konrath; Mortal Prey, by John Sandford; Life’s Little Pleasures, by George Hamilton and Alysse Minkoff (yes, that George Hamilton); Hef’s Little Black Book, by Hugh M. Hefner and Bill Zehme; A Guy’s Guide to Being a Man’s Man, by Frank (“Go home and get your shinebox!”) Vincent; and Running With Scissors: A Memoir, by Augusten Burroughs.
Just finished Ghostwritten by David Mitchell. I read Black Swan Green a few months ago, and really enjoyed it - disappointed to see it not make the cut for the Booker shortlist (although I’ve recently finished Inheritance of Loss and would really reccommend that) and I’ve got Cloud Atlas on order - I’ve been hearing really good things about it for a while now.
I’ve been on a bit of a Jenette Winterson kick for a couple of months now - loved The Passion and Lighthousekeeping but found myself unmoved by Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, which was a shame because I’d heard that was her best. Halfway through Art and Lies: half the time I love it, and the other half I’m slightly worried that I’m missing the entire point.
Three-quarters done Housekeeping, by Marilynne Robinson. I just read Gilead and loved it. This one’s beautifully written, haunting, and I like it, but don’t love it. I read both because of Nick Hornby’s recommendation in Housekeeping Vs. the Dirt. I’ve also nearly finished a book of her essays titled The Death of Adam, which is really good.
I just re-read Laurie Colwin’s More Home Cooking, which is one of my favourite food essay/cookbooks.
I started Memories of My Melancholy Whores- Gabriel Garcia Marquez- last night, but I couldn’t get into it.
Sirotas -Hostile Takeover
Palast -Armed Madhouse
Just read something that was a hoot and a half: *My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time* by Liz Jensen. It’s narrated by a prostitute from Copenhagen in 1897, who ends up time-traveling to 21st-centruy London. If you take your time-travel seriously, stay away – but this is a funny sci-fi/romance, really well done, by an author who loves to play with language. It’s eminently Doperific.