See, I was going to be frugal, I really was; I had it all planned and everything and knew that by delaying gratification for just a few days I would save enough money on one book purchase to buy another (there's always another, in case you hadn't noticed).
But then the toilet started that running constantly thing it does every couple of years, a simple fix requiring nothing more elaborate than a new tank ball, approximately $2.00, which meant a quick run to Home Depot, which meant I had to drive by Barnes & Noble and it was a hot day and the image of a cool, refreshing, caffeinated frozen beverage tantalized me and I figured well, I'll stop by for a short one, no harm in that, I don't have to buy any books, all I want is a Slurpee for grown-ups and then I'll be on my way, but as long as I'm here I may as well check out the new arrivals, you know, in case anything good has slipped by me and, well, you know how it is...
I came home with two books.
Crooked Little Vein by Warren Ellis, which I mentioned earlier, and The Flight of the Phoenix by Elleston Trevor, which was strictly an impulse buy.
I don't need to explain Crooked Little Vein; hey, it's WARREN FUCKIN' ELLIS, he who is, currently, the Coolest Damn Drunken Writer In The Whole Damn Universe:
"Apparently nothing happened that entire week outside of Lindsay Lohan--who I’m told is an actress, though I’ve never seen anything she’s been in--evidently necking a crate of Thunderbird and leaping into a truck filled with cocaine and dead babies in an attempt to run down and/or deliver vigilante justice to her ex-assistant and her mother. Or something. The rolling half-hour 'special' that replaced anything that appeared to be actual news dissected this thing so many ways that, really, I have no idea what happened the fateful night that Ms Lohan cracked the crust of stale, blood-flecked coke off her crotch and said to her soon-to-be-ex-assistant while snorting cough medicine up into her forebrain, 'shove your arm up there, girl. I want to come on your elbow.' Because the very rich are not like you and me."
--The Sunday Hangover 006
But The Flight of the Phoenix? Well, therein lies a tale.
The movie version with Jimmy Stewart pops up on American Movie Classics (AMC for short or, as I used to call it, "the Ancient Movie Channel") fairly frequently, but I've never taken the time to watch it figuring it was going to be yet another completely predictable "tense, character-driven study of men in adversity." Then Friday while I was lazing away the evening, cursing the heat overwhelming my poor little air conditioner and wondering what the cost of living is like in Alaska, F/X broadcast the Dennis Quaid version and I left it on while I did other things, catching bits and pieces here and there until...until...I hit the plot twist.
Which in and of itself was cool, but what I found even cooler was the character, Elliot, who introduced the plot twist--he seemed decidedly Aspergian, which always catches my attention.
So, of course, I had to have the book--just to see.
Man, oh man, do I need adult supervision.