*squeeflailzomg!* It totally fits the mood I was in the past couple days and Lynne Truss! I just want to snuggle it shamelessly! ...and I probably will, too. I love her. Sardonicism, truth, and humor. I wonder if she'll marry me.
No for real though, in getting back to the title of this entry, used bookstores are so beyond dangerous for me. Or, alternatively, they are so beyond dangerous for my finances. Here's an example...
The Adventures of Bookworm McGhee
I went out on a quest today, because I've been trying to locate a reasonably priced copy of the Traveller's Guide to Hell. The book looks exceedingly hilarious, and it's supposed to be a translation of and tourist guide approach to Dante's Inferno, which I may or may not have read under the influence of elephant tranquilizers 5 or 6 years ago. The point is, I don't really remember but I am sure it's something along the lines of: guilt, fuck we're doomed, shit, better to know what you're up against, panic, helplessness and then the eventual forecast of inescapable hellfire, brimstone, snakes, more doom, ow ow fuck it hurts, shit, more guilt, more panic, and eventual madness. Anyway, the point here, is that I really want to read a book by a couple of respected travel writers essentially taking the mickey out of some of the most widely recognized doomsaying out there. That, my friends, is quality literature.
However, the problem I have encountered with said quality literature is that it went out of print roughly circa 1998, and finding a copy available for below 50 bucks online is completely out of the question. I tried searching some libraries and evidently they don't have it either. So I decided to go cruise the used book stores in my neighborhood(which are open until midnight, what the hell?) and see if I could locate my elusive book-prey. I knew it was a long shot, but I really want this book.
I told myself I wasn't going to buy any book other than this book... tchya, right... and well, I got out of the first store surprisingly without incident although I was then being tempted by Starbucks. Thankfully, the other two bookstores are across the street so I could avoid the caffeinated temptation. I went into the second one, and my resolve - which had weakened considerably and had given away into a shrill whine - completely broke. I left with five, 'count em, five books. It's ludicrous, because I'm already in the middle of five books. Granted, they'll be done by the end of the week but come on. I allowed myself into the door of the last bookshop, hurriedly asked the book-keep if he'd even heard of the Traveller's Guide, knowing full well he wouldn't have, and then left promptly after he checked the inventory. I barely escaped before the shiny new covers of the David Sedaris books could hurl me into another bout of spending.
Lock me in a library or bookstore and I promise I'll never want again. Except maybe for some tea. And, of course, a copy of the Traveller's Guide to Hell. Ok, I lied. I'll still want, but books!
Wheeeee booksqueeee!!! ♥! In fact, for all my fellow bibliophiles:
My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors - Moxy Fruvous