I went out for a couple of drinks with my friend J last night at Broadways and there was a huge rainbow over Town Mountain. That was nice, although the pictures of it, which can be seen here, sadly aren't so great. Ah well. Then I came home, stopping first at the liquor store where I spent vast amounts of money on vodka and rum, thus ensuring that my moving crew will be a very happy moving crew (if N and I don't drink it all before next week, which is a disheartening possibility, alas) and picked up beaucoups de boxes. Those boxes are now all over the house and I'm packing and tossing books. I think I can live without Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh (in 90% of Ngaio Marsh books, btw, the murderer is a sex starved spinster. Yet another reason why celibacy is just so BAD for one.) but I need Dorothy Sayers and Marjorie Allingham. And Steven Brust and of course Tim Powers but not Sean Russell or Robert Heinlein, although I am saving Podkayne of Mars, god help me.
The books are filthy and I'm covered with grunge and that weird crud that gets all over books. What IS that stuff? No, wait, it's possible I don't want to know.
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