Books Do Furnish A Room 20th
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Charles is in the living room reading a book about gay Hollywood stars (with its Lesbian sequel at hand). Pure trash. But with my particular weaknesses I think it charming. So I thought Iíd add another fillip to my journal.
Pretty blank few days. The chief interest of my last couple of days is the pimples on my butt. Now thereís an uningratiating topic (maybe they are insect bites). But not being able to sit comfortably can be a riveting preoccupation.
Historians of used bookselling may want to take note that Tuesday is the 20th anniversary of Books Do Furnish A Room. Weíll be having a sale next weekend (we need the money otherwise itíd pass as unnoted as birthdays and Christmas).
Having spent the last twenty years doing what I want, being rude or kind to who I want, fucking off if I please is my maturityís greatest blessing. When faced with a rude cretin thereís no ďYes SirĒ instead it is ďGet the fuck out of my store!Ē
A couple of times annoyed petty people have asked me the name of the manager. I tell them to speak to Richard Evans Lee. They deflate when they ask my name.
I donít suffer under a mean or his sometimes worse variant incompetent boss.
The biggest pain is that I donít make much money. Anybody with a decent white-collar job makes more. That didnít matter much until I bought the house with Charles. And free books and CDs is no mean perk.
But Iíd never suffered much from brutal of unable employers. I didnít hesitate to quit, once after two hours.
And for many years I was a practicing lily of the field. The good of luck of having tolerant and kind friends. Or people with schemes and dreams they thought I could help them with.
Intermittently Iíd work as a market research interviewer on a catch-as-catch-can basis. You could sign up for four hour shifts. To be honest there were a few times when Iíd work eighty or so hours a week.
At the end in San Francisco I became a salaried ĎField Services Supervisorí at a small research company. The only regular job Iíve ever had for any length of time.
I sometimes wonder what Iíd do if the bookshop failed. Murder myself? Probably not if I were still with Charles. But Iím not sure. What would be my alternative? Become one of those old men who do menial jobs at chain stores?
I donít have any saleable skills. Maybe ten years ago I couldíve gotten a computer related job. But I donít have the cash to play with them anymore and my skills have atrophied. (I keep hoping somehow to get another computer so I can play with Linux again. Havenít since the pre-1.0 kernel.)
That is why I donít smoke pot anymore. It always makes me think of cancer and poverty. Well, actually I donít smoke pot because when Charles does he becomes dangerously wacky. But pot does make me drift into insane fears.
Damnifiknow what caused that morbid bit to pop out. Iím in a cheerful mood tonight.