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Monopolize This
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.
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.