So many things to write about; if only I could overcome this apparently chronic case of fuzzy brain. Well, "fuzzy" is descriptive, but maybe not entirely accurate. Sometimes, I'm as sharp as the proverbial X-acto knife, but then whatever brilliant and sparkling clear insight happens to occur during those moments disappears as quickly as it arrives, leaving me thinking "What was that thing? About the guy, and the Potsdam Conference? Or was it the Yalta Agreement? Damn it, I forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer. What time is it? Where are my sunglasses, damn it! And did I pay the phone bill?"
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Aside from January's monster snowstorm, we've had a relatively mild winter, but winter is winter and by the end of February, I'm always ready for it to be over. That's why I'm downright offended by the sight of snow on March Bloody 19th. What's that saying again? March: In like a bitch, out like a damn whore. Thankfully, we didn't have any sports or other outdoor activities today. Instead, we went to one of my very favorite annual events: The Friends of the Library used book sale at the Aspen Hill Library. I spent $5.70, and got the following:
The Blue Flower, Penelope Fitzgerald. I love Penelope Fitzgerald so much that I bought this even though I already had a copy. This one has a prettier cover. Now I can lend the other one and not worry about whether or not I get it back.
Please Don't Eat the Daisies, Jean Kerr. Another one that I already have. This was a 35-cent Crest Books edition from 1959. Click here if you want to read what I wrote about this book.
A Woman in Jerusalem, A.B. Yehoshua. I have no idea, but I liked the cover blurbs.
Holidays on Ice, David Sedaris. I still laugh my head off at "You Can't Kill the Rooster."
The Pocket Book of Ogden Nash. I love old Pocket Books. This one is from 1962, so it was already old when a previous owner used a dentist's appointment reminder card from 1997 as a bookmark.
With All Disrespect: More Uncivil Liberties, Calvin Trillin.
If You Lived Here, You'd be Home by Now, Claire LaZebnik. She seems delightful. Maybe I'll send for a signed bookplate.
The Americans: The National Experience, Daniel Boorstin. I'm reading The Democratic Experience now.
Life and Death in Shanghai, Nien Cheng. Sometimes I read about the Cultural Revolution, when I need a break from the gulag.
More Tales of the City, Armistead Maupin.
Away, Amy Bloom. No idea about this one, either. I'll find out soon enough.
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The $5.70 that I spent also included a few books about Navy ships and magic tricks, selected by my 11-year-old son, who is now sitting on my couch with his best friend, singing "(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (to Party.)" Apparently, you don't, though. I'm sitting on my couch at 8:15 on a Saturday night writing about used books and memory loss, and if that's not a party gone out of bounds, then I don't know what is. I'll keep this up until some damn busybody calls the cops and shuts the whole clambake down. Then, I suppose, I'll wander into the kitchen and promptly forget why I'm there. This is no place for lightweights, so try to keep up.
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