Charley yelled at me Monday night. Apparently, my sibling readers have missed my posts lately (Work and school have proven a leech on my time and energy — even sleep has been forestalled until June). I’ve been sitting on this post for the last month-and-a-half, not wanting to post until I’ve added a few pictures, a few humoroous vignettes, a few notable insights in the human condition . . . but as this pile of labs-to-be-graded accumulates like a malignant tumor on the desk before me (“Friendly neighborhood Spiderman-mug save me!”), I figure “Screw it! Move on! Post the blog! Scribble an A on the labs! Take the day off! Move to Orlando! Marry a Disney princess . . . preferably Belle or that Tangled-chick! Use more exclamation points!!!” Carpe diem guys! Whoo ah!
Like many pilgrims before me, New Jersey welcomed me with open arms and a cocktail of …. grotesque aromas: sewer vents, tire-mushed polecat, and bilge. We had passed most of the evening on I-95, driving to upstate New York from Baltimore via Jersey, much like Dante’s trip to Paradiso via Inferno. Not being a native New Yorker, you might think this an unkind comparison, but few trips through New Jersey have taken me off the turnpike; thus, the landscape of tangled grey pipes, desiccated fields, and smoking chemical factories encompasses much of my sense memory. Still, despite the momentary assault on my lungs, the party on Saturday proved well-worth the visit.
After years of pining, dating, failing, blubbering, and ultimately dismissing the whole female race as ‘shallow sluts,’ my friend and brother, Frank ‘The Chainsaw’ had finally discovered — how had O Henry coined it? — “the one missing face from his heart’s gallery of intimate portraits.” That was two or three years ago; this weekend Frank had invited his whole ‘adopted’ family to a country club to celebrate his wedding.
Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them. — Lemony Snicket
Packing for trips always proves a stressful time for me. Though others might become bogged by shirts, socks, and appropriate footwear, we bibliophiles must decide on the number and type of books we can possibly stuff into our carry-on’s before we’re considered a threat to airline security.
This Saturday Dasad and I are traveling to the other side of the continent for what will prove our second major ‘roadtrip’ in the last four years. California. A week and a half. One insured rent-a-car. Dear God . . . Other more road-weary travelers may shrug at such hyperbole, but considering my spring breaks never involved Cancun or Rio, devolving into enjoyable but group-centered family excursions, spending a week anywhere alone is quite exciting. Needless to say, I hope I don’t drive Dasad murder-crazy.
Yet for the moment all is good. Though preparing to pack this morning, I now face a crisis: deciding which tomes of my extensive collection to tote one-eighth the way around the globe. Zafon’s Shadow of the Wind. Mark Twain. Sherlock Holmes. Count of Monte Cristo. Or Alan Bradley’s The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie (Dagger Award winner. I heard it was quite good.). And then there’s my Naruto manga . . . All I know is that I must bring something or stranded by earthquake or fire, I might find myself a little put out.
A library is like an island in the middle of a vast sea of ignorance, particularly if the library is very tall and the surrounding area has been flooded — Lemony Snicket
Ah hell . . . I’ll probably just end up bringing them all. Worst case, I’ll try to slip a few tomes in Dasad’s bags before we leave. He probably won’t mind if displace a few socks or jeans in the process. The airline will simply lose it en route anyway, and then we’ll have an excellent excuse to replenish our supply (and perhaps a few new additions) at some California bookstores. If I manage to make it back in one piece, safe travels and good perspectives to you all on your own summer vacations this year!
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime. — Mark Twain