Maybe I shouldn't admit that.
April is half-way over and I don't have much to show for it. Cruelest month indeed. The final day of the work thing I've been frantic about for 5 months ends tomorrow, so if I make it through that, maybe I'll get to be "me" again. Though, as drunkenly alluded to in my previous post, I have been attempting to make up for lost time via happy hour all last week already.
On Friday night I went to opening night of a very large booksale that took place in a hangar. It took five minutes to walk to the end of the line. Apparently people queue up in the morning and make a day of it. Jer and I showed up when the doors opened and I paid my $30 entrance fee... they ran out of yellow cards to prove I'd paid, which later confounded the book counters and nearly made one accuse me of lying. Over two books. Hi, why?
The setup was slightly confusing for a first-timer -- though old pro book buyer -- like myself. I wandered into the Better Books section, which is apparently self-contained and after you leave it you have to either leave completely and walk around to the entrance or check your books at will call. I left... dropped my 2 books at the car and then came right back in. My $30 entitled me to purchase 25 books and ogle the silent auction selections, grimacing as some people tossed back the cover of Dante's leather bound volume like ... well, like people who don't have a clue. Finger oils! Stop fondling the etchings! Ahhhh. I ended up with 18 books total.
As we walked back to the car, Jer asked about what I bought. "Oh," I said, "mostly classics. Treasure Island, a Nabokov, and then I picked up The Plague." I meant Camus, he thought I meant bubonic.
I really should've had a drink first.
Later I found a huge spider at the bottom of my book bag. But hey, free spider!
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