Watching far too much television this summer, my current guilty secret is Carnivàle. Quite risque viewing for some (what do you expect from HBO?), but it's all about the atmosphere, the sumptuous set design, the evocation of a bygone era and much maligned tradespeople - carnies. As the carnival rolls into yet another dust bowl town in Texas, I stretch out on couch-bed with a fan strategically directed to sweep across from head to toes. Sort of blissful way to spend evenings since I'm all baba-like these days. I'm comatose by 9pm and have the most fitful dreams ever when I finally get to sleep. Polar bears chasing me down ravines, crashing a car into an ice shelf, running away from a pedophile. Honestly. I should keep a dream diary, you couldn't come up with half that shite on acid and a 3 week stint in the jungle as a Viet Cong.
Russian Christmas is upon us, I've got my brown paper to tie up all the packages with string here.