Yesterday, I discovered the answer to an interesting philosophical question, like how many angels can stand on the head of a pin or how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop or how many Dadaists does it take to change a lightbulb*, namely if I go into a bookstore with the express intention of NOT buying books, how long does it take me to get into trouble?
The answer is twenty-five minutes.
I was doing fine in the New Fiction section, doing fine in the SF section. No trouble in YA or Mystery or Horror. But then I walked around to the other side of the case holding Horror and found myself in Drama, staring at a copy of Noises Off. Then, since I have a long ingrained rationalization that if you're going to buy one book, you might as well buy two, I checked for Christopher Fry--no luck--and Tom Stoppard--jackpot! and it was only by the exercise of fairly draconian self-government that I came away with only The Invention of Love. And then, in the checkout line, I was ambushed by Public Enemies (with the further rationalization assist that
mirrorthaw would probably be interested as well and I can always lend it to
matociquala, too).
Twenty-five minutes and forty bucks.
---
*Fish.
The answer is twenty-five minutes.
I was doing fine in the New Fiction section, doing fine in the SF section. No trouble in YA or Mystery or Horror. But then I walked around to the other side of the case holding Horror and found myself in Drama, staring at a copy of Noises Off. Then, since I have a long ingrained rationalization that if you're going to buy one book, you might as well buy two, I checked for Christopher Fry--no luck--and Tom Stoppard--jackpot! and it was only by the exercise of fairly draconian self-government that I came away with only The Invention of Love. And then, in the checkout line, I was ambushed by Public Enemies (with the further rationalization assist that
Twenty-five minutes and forty bucks.
---
*Fish.