(no subject)
Apr. 5th, 2004 01:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rktsaturday:
i went to the conference (more to come later.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kornrowchic does a fantabulous description of what happened.)
it ended up being a lot of what i was expecting. it was good. i don't think i wasted my time. i thought it could have been done better. and i'm learning even still to temper that rage.
but my highlight was the find on my way to the train station.
as some of you might remember, i have been on the quest for SEVERAL years for a mass market sized contact that isn't a movie tie in. jodie foster is still fucking brilliant and hot, panic room aside, but i hate, despise, loathe movie tie in covers, considering them to be abomination. i've tried ebay. amazon. even motherfucking barnes and noble. no luck. i've ended up, twice, with the movie tie in book (oh, i didn't realize when you said you didn't want the one with jodie foster on it, that that's what you meant) and once with an old-school cover, in trade (the oversized paperback) size. i'd grown resigned to living without and had give up my search in despair.
so, saturday night, i'm walking traditional rebecca-style, which is slower than slow as hell, to the train station. i'm almost there when i see a pile of paperback books. glancing across the pile, it looks like mostly the judith mc naught variety. . .trash. . . i keep walking but catch out of the corner of my eye a book with a partial sphere on the cover and a title that starts with a c. i keep walking, "it can't possibly be my book," i think.
but the pile calls me back.
and i return.
i peer at the book that had spoken to me.
"contact" it says.
i must be delusional, and i haven't even reached a bar yet.
i pick it up. all the pages appear to be there. a bit more yellow than i prefer, but fuck, it's the book of my dreams. my holy grail. i make happy noises that make the people milling around the sidewalk look at me like i'm insane. maybe i am.
carefully, i put the book into my purse and continue on my merry way.
my friend ends up getting a 90+ minute samoan tattoo. so, i finish the little prince, bought the previous day from the Unoppressive Nonimperilist Bargain Bookstore, and move right on to my new book.
sigh.
sometimes, there is proof after all that maybe, just maybe, gawd doesn't (entirely) hate me.
i went to the conference (more to come later.
kornrowchic does a fantabulous description of what happened.)it ended up being a lot of what i was expecting. it was good. i don't think i wasted my time. i thought it could have been done better. and i'm learning even still to temper that rage.
but my highlight was the find on my way to the train station.
as some of you might remember, i have been on the quest for SEVERAL years for a mass market sized contact that isn't a movie tie in. jodie foster is still fucking brilliant and hot, panic room aside, but i hate, despise, loathe movie tie in covers, considering them to be abomination. i've tried ebay. amazon. even motherfucking barnes and noble. no luck. i've ended up, twice, with the movie tie in book (oh, i didn't realize when you said you didn't want the one with jodie foster on it, that that's what you meant) and once with an old-school cover, in trade (the oversized paperback) size. i'd grown resigned to living without and had give up my search in despair.
so, saturday night, i'm walking traditional rebecca-style, which is slower than slow as hell, to the train station. i'm almost there when i see a pile of paperback books. glancing across the pile, it looks like mostly the judith mc naught variety. . .trash. . . i keep walking but catch out of the corner of my eye a book with a partial sphere on the cover and a title that starts with a c. i keep walking, "it can't possibly be my book," i think.
but the pile calls me back.
and i return.
i peer at the book that had spoken to me.
"contact" it says.
i must be delusional, and i haven't even reached a bar yet.
i pick it up. all the pages appear to be there. a bit more yellow than i prefer, but fuck, it's the book of my dreams. my holy grail. i make happy noises that make the people milling around the sidewalk look at me like i'm insane. maybe i am.
carefully, i put the book into my purse and continue on my merry way.
my friend ends up getting a 90+ minute samoan tattoo. so, i finish the little prince, bought the previous day from the Unoppressive Nonimperilist Bargain Bookstore, and move right on to my new book.
sigh.
sometimes, there is proof after all that maybe, just maybe, gawd doesn't (entirely) hate me.
