Apr. 6th, 2006

Me with these reviews! It's like I'm suddenly... Oh my God, I'm an opinionated woman.

Allen, Danu-Fan-Allen, Not-Kirwan-Fan Allen, do I know you from anywhere else? Z got a weird spam at the office from someone named Allen and now he's decided you're stalking him and he's going to blame everything that ever goes wrong on you. :) Just thought I'd let you know, if you're still reading.
But I digress: on to the post, with some Adventurous preamble.

So when Z got home from work I made him pumpkin-ginger soup and corn muffins, and then forced him to drive me to the local indie bookstore, where I intended to purchase the new Jenny Crusie / Bob Mayer book, Don't Look Down. I succeeded in getting sort of sneered at by the clerk-- he "couldn't say why", but they didn't have the book in stock, nor did they have any plans to order it, he said, glancing up at me with a bit of a leery eye (is that Chick Lit? we are Not that Kind of Store, missy), but they could special order it for me, if I put down a deposit, because, see, they weren't going to special order it and then not have me buy it. (Because it's a book store and it's not like they could actually sell, you know, a book, if I didn't buy it. I could see the little indie shoe shop down the street wanting a deposit on my special-ordered knee-high red Docs, size 7.5 mens', but a bookstore wanting a deposit on a book? Jesus.) I mean, they had to have room for the extra-large cardboard display of hardback copies of The DaVinci Code. (Crickets on crutches, has nothing else been published this year?)

So I said, "I'll come back if I want you to order it," thinking, fuck that, it's $14.95 on Amazon and if I'm waiting for two days it's because I'm saving money even if they gouge me on shipping, and went and bought a $3 mocha from the attached coffee shop. Caffe Aroma, if you're interested: mighty fine place. Bullshitted with the baristas ("Jeez, guys," she said, when we had the nerve to order drinks. "So demanding. It's like this is my job or something,"), had a nice time (I'm actually not kidding: they were funny: sarcasm isn't always bad as long as they're laughing with you), supported local business that was selling what I wanted, and then drove to Barnes & Noble, where they had the book set up near the door but I walked right past it because the cover is pale yellow-green and I thought it was a darker color and didn't recognize it.
They politely led me back to it, even removing one from the pile for me. Then they sold it to me, for $21.71, were amused and pleasant with me, and told me to have a nice evening.
"Oh," I said gleefully, peeling back the chick-lit chartreuse dust jacket to show Z the camoflage book cover with a little silhouetted alligator on it, "I sure will."
"Nerd," Z said, as we made our way out the door past the sale rack of remaindered DaVinci Code spinoffs.

So, the actual review: disorganized and blithering but generally positive )


Apr. 6th, 2006 09:44 am
I'm AV's newest columnist.

They have a restaurant reviewer, see, But he only likes the fancy places. They need someone to do the cheaper places.
The places I go.

Working for free food plus publishing credits is Not a bad idea.

Also it's related to the nonfiction book I wanted to do.

Things could be much worse, my friends.
I didn't ought to have gone buying that book. I got no business reading books. They get inside me, see, or maybe it's that I get inside them, but then I can't really get back out. It's worse than writing because there's no responsibility.
I read Don't Look Down twice last night, and then parts of it this morning. I succeeded in putting it down and going to do other things, and even did some of my own writing, but then I picked it up again, and I got stuck in the middle bit, and I tried to put it down but then I saw Anansi Boys, that my uncle got me for Christmas-- it's a beautiful hardbound copy of it, and it was such a wholeheartedly charming book, so I picked it up and carried it around for a while. I managed again to get other things done-- did the laundry, wrote some more, made dinner-- but the book was there, and I fell into it, sooner or later. And now I've finished it but I want to be inside another one.

This is rather tragic and unsettling and addicting, and I think I really had better get back to writing again, only it's so much easier to just read. Nngh! I'm in grave danger of slipping back into a fiction coma. And my voice, now-- it's all Gaimaned up, which is distressing.



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