I promise that very soon I'll quit flogging this particular dead horse, and we can move on to more interesting stuff like "Knocked Up" as Mainstreaming of the Jew-Fro, but the New York Times Book Review, she is aggravating me!

This week the Review considered thirteen books. Four of them were fiction.

Two of the four fiction reviews are about books that the Times reviewed the week before (Joyce Carol Oates' THE GRAVEDIGGER'S DAUGHTER and Michael Ondaatje's DIVISADERO).

In both cases, the reviews were grudgingly positive, with the Sunday reviewers making the more or less the same points and complaints that the daily reviewers did.

Do editors at the Times really believe that this is a fair allocation of the paper's resources? Of all of the books published this week, did these two stand so far above everything else that they were each worth reviewing twice in a seven-day span?

And it gets worse when you get to Dwight Garner's Inside the List column. Guess which two authors he writes about? You will never guess!

Or maybe you will. It's Oates. And Ondaatje. (And, to be fair, Barry Eisler, who has a cool website, and is charmingly self-deprecating about errors in his book, and who, no matter how many books he sells, will never ever ever get one-one-hundredth of the attention the Times gives to Ondaatje or Oates, because he writes thrillers).

In other news, we're moving (just around the corner, but still). The very sweet and accomodating movers came today to start packing us up. I stressed the importance of leaving the TV set until the last possible instant. "Age of Love" starts tonight, and you know I am not missing that.

The movers courteously did not laugh in my face, and they left the TV...but they packed the remote.

They packed the remote.

We have TiVo. I'm not even sure it's possible to change the channels without the remote. Our TV is currently on ESPN.

This is unfortunate.