Posthuman Blues

I'm reading an entertaining space opera called "Evergence: The Prodigal Sun." It's the first in a trilogy. I sort of bought it on a lark. It's definitely a post-"Schismatrix" novel; Bruce Sterling changed everything with that book.






Genre-wise, I'm extremely wary of stories that have anything to do with Asimovian galactic empires (or federations, or whatever). I think the likelihood of a galactic civilization striving for political/cultural coherence is appallingly unlikely.

I really wish I could relate some meaningful and/or interesting anecdote about my day, but I can't. I slept badly -- again -- and resigned myself to methodically eating canned goods, doing laundry and drinking the obligatory coffee (a new blend called -- no kidding -- "The Meaning of Life." Not bad for $1.47).

You know what? I'm really sick of the Midwest. I'm not putting it down; I'm just tired of it. I'd like to find myself suddenly wandering the streets of Cairo or Bangkok or Paris. Tokyo, Prague, Mars -- just give me the ticket and I'm there.