Well, shoot. That hiatus didn't last too long, did it?
Fuhgeddaboudit. I've got two good reasons for violating blogger parole. Number one, I'm trying this whole "post labels" thing. For some unexplained reason, it seems that they won't show up on my posts if I add them in retroactively. So I'm creating this post with labels, and adding it onto the blog to see if they'll show up then. If they don't, there's something rotten in Denmark, and I'll know about it.
Second, I have a story to tell you.
So there I am, sitting in my easy chair, trying to absorb certain key principles of aerodynamics. There's a baleful, blasting rainstorm pounding around outside. It's a nasty, wet, windy afternoon.
Without warning, Dad comes into the room. He has a small cardboard box in his arms. He deposits it on the floor and says, "Hey, I found these books in the garage. Think you might have any use for 'em?"
He has me at "books."
I throw my flight school textbook aside and bend forward to examine the box. It's filled with ten faded, dog-eared, worn volumes. Here's the manifest:
The Autobiography of Malcolm X
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
A Separate Peace by John Knowles
Flying Saucers - Serious Business by Frank Edwards
The People's Almanac #3 by David Wallechinsky and Irving Wallace
The Reivers by William Faulkner
The Boston Strangler by Gerold Frank
Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
On the Nature of the Universe by Lucretius
Six Great Modern Short Novels
Pages are bent. Covers are stained, torn or missing. Dust blankets everything. The cardboard box once held twelve bottles of Henry Weinhard's Private Reserve.
In other words, it's a veritable treasure trove, an unbelievable haul. Just when I was wondering what I was going to read after The Epic of Gilgamesh, Pop drops ten unexplored books on my rug. One of them has six novels in it. Another deals with UFOs. I love UFOs; don't believe in 'em, but I love 'em. A third is a reference book that was written to be read for pleasure. If you knew me as well as I do you'd realize just how appropriate that book is for me.
Several of the books are classics. One is a scientific treatise written by a materialist poet nearly 2000 years ago. Another was authored by William Faulkner, a purportedly great author, whom I've never read before and have always meant to. Most of the books concern subjects which I know absolutely nothing about. And I have never read any of them.
My excitement cannot be understated.
Needless to say, there are going to be some jolly good book reviews on the way very soon.
And as if that wasn't enough sympathetic magic for one day, I just recently learned that Hunter S. Thompson and I apparently have similar taste in bourbon. We are both fans (or perhaps I should say "I am and he was a fan") of Old Crow.
Now, if it turns out that Wiley Post liked a whiskey sour, I might just die of empathy.
