Bookie

I've been having really good luck at the library lately. I go to either a Somerville or Cambridge branch; I am equidistant from each, in opposite directions. The latter is dingier with a better book selection while the former is quite clean and neat and has better DVDs.

I just returned a new take on Robert Pirsig, written by, I think, a Canadian (I am too pooped to Google him and confirm). It was quite decent. I pointed out the book this book was inspired by to Walnut at a bookstore a couple of weeks ago; she figured she was too old and jaded for it now and she's right. It's a book best read in college, I think. Or maybe best read by people like she and I in college. Sort of like how if you've passed 17 you've also passed the age at which you should read Dostoevsky, or so I've been told.

In place of the Pirsig I got a Studs Terkel memoir; he died last month and has since been all over the podcasts I listen to, including one I played today while stuffing pierogi. I recently read another great memoir by a woman who worked at Per Se, a fantastic (and fantastically expensive) New York restaurant. And I am working my way through yet another memoir by an escaped FLDS polygamist wife. And and there's still Bonk from Mary Roach in the hopper. And and and I have yet to spend a 25-dollar bookstore gift card but when I do it will be on something by Jane Brox and something by Soren Kierkegaard.

It's great having lots-o-books in the hopper. And now I am going to go lay on my sofa of mindfulness and read one.