Nothing to report. No seriously, nothing. I'm sitting here, drinking luke-warm coffee (what probably figures out to be my third cup of the day) and eating peanuts while simultaneously making it impossible for Lydia, our new hire (and your new blogess???) to enjoy her break by yelling at her that I don't know what to write this blog post about. Lydia tells me that she hurt her neck this morning as she wrenched herself out of bed too quickly. The clock radio was blaring a news story about cockroaches crawling into peoples ears, and she had a physical, visceral reaction that spurned her from lying prone, thus injuring precious neck muscles. This is odd, she says, given her age.
"Oh yeah," I demure, "you're like, what, 12 or something?"
"Yes," she responds, "12 or something. I am the world's only geriatric 12 year old."
I'm just trying to let you in on the creative process here at the Booksmith.
But the cable was found, the event went great, and now Jamie is full of pizza and therefore comfortably placated.
Today is 9/1, the day when all the college students from all over the country move back into Boston. I was 15 minutes late for work because a moving truck was blocking somebody who was blocking somebody else who was blocking me, and it's like that all over the city. For the next 9 months we are going to have to share our fine city with the youths of America as they siphon into our streets to receive their over-priced, over-hyped, under-whelming education (not that I'm bitter, or anything). Deep breaths, everybody. Stay off the roads when you can, travel by day, and remember: where caffeine leaves off, booze (and/or cake) picks up.
Tickets went on sale today! These dudes are coming to Booksmith:
Tickets are 5 dollars! Stop by or give us a call at 617.566.6660 and order over the phone.
Jamie came back on her way to count out the drawer to register 5 to find Lydia cracking up hysterically about something. Jamie promptly asked if Lydia would prefer to be called "Giggles McGoo".
And thus a star is born.