All right, I admit it: advertising sometimes does have an effect on me. A flyer that came with yesterday's Globe and Mail advertised Margaret MacMillan's Paris 1919 for something like $19.95 at Indigo. I had decided to buy a copy of Samuel R. Delany's Dhalgren for L (yes, we saw each other again last weekend and are tentatively set again for this, thanks for asking) and so went in to kill two birds with one stone. While there, I thought to see if they had a copy of Koestler's The Sleepwalkers. I'd lent my ancient, tattered edition to L and told her to just toss out the pages as she finished them.
Long story short: No copy of The Sleepwalkers in the store, but they have it at their warehouse. Very good, sez I, I'd like to order it.
But guess what? There's a delivery charge! Same price I would be if they delivered it to my fucking door! Since when do bookstores charge a fee for placing a special-order? Especially when the desired volume is in stock at their warehouse.
Christ. You'd think I'd know better than to patronize a monstrous semi-monopoly like that. It's Book City or something independent from now on, even if their in-stock selection isn't as extensive.
Meet Joe Cool
Oh the bitter irony: Now that I'm wearing contact lenses most of the time (though I didn't manage to get them in today), I've had to go out to buy a pair of sunglasses.
I like them. There's something fun about knowing people can't see your eyes.
I should gain 50 pounds, move to Alabama and become a State Trooper.
Will I Stay or Will I Go
The moment of truth approaches in the trenches of wage-slavery. I handed in my application for my company's voluntary severance package this week and, apparently, will find out on Tuesday whether or not I will soon join the ranks of the happily unemployed. I am trying not to get my hopes up, but it's difficult; I really need to find another place and maybe another way to support myself.
Finally ...
... I don't for one moment believe those awful rumours about our beloved Prime Minister, The Right Honourable Paul Martin, and the blueberry cheesecake.
You people really ought to be ashamed of yourselves.
