Happiness is a bunch of books rescued from bookstore bargain bins.
Yes, indeed, why not? The storm’s over, the sun’s shining, and like everyone else with a stable job, I got some extra cash to burn this Christmas. And since I’m not a smart, fastidious dresser nor an obsessive gadget freak, the money will definitely go to toys, graphic novels and books. Now, when I go to bookstores, I usually check the bargain bins. Needless to say, the past few trips have been fruitful, as evidenced by the photo.
My New Year’s resolution, if you may: In 2017, I intend to read more. Magazines, books, comics, whatnot. This means there’ll be less movies and TV series next year. Will not give myself a quota, though. Will just read ’em one at a time, and then see how it goes.
Playlist: Dream Theater – Images and Words; Dog Fashion Disco – Anarchists of Good Taste; Killing Joke – Pylon
Time check: an hour before midnight. I could go watch the latest episode of The Walking Dead, but I figure quiet December nights like this are best for reading.
So I started reading the June 2016 issue of The New Yorker. Why not? It’s raining, I just came home from work, and I need something to do while I kill a mug of coffee and put my thoughts in order before I go to bed. I bought this out of curiosity weeks ago, at Booksale-Farmers, but it’s only now I get to read it. Whether I’ll be an avid reader or not will depend on this issue.
Earlier, at my solitary dinner at the office, I finished Charles Bukowski’s Post Office. There’s a character there, a female writer, who spends her days reading The New Yorker. Judging from what Bukowski wrote about her, it’s obvious that he didn’t think highly of artist types. Considering he is a “poet laureate of LA lowlife,” that is not surprising. It’s whores, drunks and urban squalor over painters, performance artists, and art galleries for him. Admittedly, I kind of feel the same way, too. But who gives a shit?
Still raining. The sheets are cool, and I got American Football on Spotify. Selah.