This past Saturday appears to have been "National Independent Bookstore Day," if you can believe that. I mean, come on people, I love books, but do we really have to have an official special day for everything? How does this even happen? Do we all just inherently have the power to declare a day to be in honor of something, and then everyone has to buy into that? Can my neighbor Margaret declare that tomorrow is Snooping Self-righteous Old Hag Day, and then we all have to give her presents? Or can my son-in-law Gerry decree that next Friday is People Who Made Repeated Bad Life Choices Day, and then we all have to get dressed up and pretend that his life still has the possibility of turning out ok? My daughter says that every day is something now, so I looked up an important day in my life, September 26, and found that it is - I shit you not - National Situational Awareness Day. What the fuck does that even mean? All these special days are simply ridiculous, and they take the meaning away from actual important holidays, like National Pickle Day, which is November 14, so write that down.
In any case, Lawrence decided to take me to my local independent bookstore in honor of the day, and you will not be surprised to learn that I wasn't too happy about it. I don't really like going into stores, or being in crowds, or buying things, or interacting with people, or celebrations, so there wasn't a lot going for this. However, I did not want to overlook the fact that Lawrence was still willing to take me somewhere after the Flat Earther incident, so I reluctantly agreed.
I was predictably bored and annoyed at first, but then I saw this book - something by one of my favorite authors that I hadn't even heard about. The disgustingly cheerful bookstore lady explained that this was book was printed exclusively for Independent Bookstore Day and not available anywhere else. I told her that struck me as the stupidest promotion strategy I had ever heard. Why write something brilliant and then try to ensure that people won't buy it? Might as well write poetry. I had promised myself not to let Lawrence trick me into buying anything, just so couldn't think he had done me a favor that I would have to repay some time in the future, but then the idea of having a book that other people couldn't get started to settle nicely in my brain. So I bought one.
It's not a long book, so I went to the coffee shop next door (apparently, for some fuckers, it's already pumpkin spice season) and I read it. And it was great! I was briefly happy, but then it started to gnaw at me that lots of other people might also be reading my exclusive book and enjoying themselves. So I went back to the bookstore and bought all the rest of the copies that they had. And I was happy again! I must say that they make a beautiful pile next to my La-z-boy, and it is tall enough to hold my coffee mug full of gin at just the right height. And if the mug leaves a ring on a book, I'll just rotate that one to the bottom. Plus, I can flaunt them in front of my visitors, use them as bribes, or maybe even sell a few at a profit on Tinder, or whatever it is. As I was admiring my stack last night, it did occur to me that maybe the promotion strategy for this book was more clever than I had originally recognized. Touché, Mr. Towles. And Happy Bookstore Day, everyone!