Vignette.

Yesterday, I found some time to spend at Barnes and Noble (read: six hours) after attending a literary conference put on for my university's senior English majors (don't ask me why I went; I was curious, I can easily pose as an older student, and there were free cookies). Anyway, after indulging myself by picking up a vanilla frappuccino from Starbucks and a bran muffin from Mimi's Cafe (read: heaven on a plate), I drove to the bookstore. Starting light, I skimmed the psychology text that served as the definitive reference on all things teen-social-scene for the movie Mean Girls, perused Fitzgerald's original short story "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" (which, as expected, had a plot quite different than that depicted in the movie), and then picked up the novel I'd come for, The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton (which was as deliciously intense and microbiology-laden as I'd hoped; I highly recommend it if you have time for an exciting literary diversion).

Stretching myself laterally across a grey armchair, with my legs crossed over one armrest and my head cradled by the other, I was entirely content. At least, I was until some socially inept idiot with an equally clueless girlfriend pulled up two chairs and began reading the complete works of Ann Coulter out loud. Seriously? I mean, the whole place was silent. All the people in my section were quietly reading; what in the world made this guy think he could start yelling "incisive conservative hardball" to everyone in the area? After a good fifteen minutes of rants about the Godless Church of Liberalism, I'd had it. I not-so-subtly mimicked throwing my novel at the guy's head, and the man sitting across the way from me clapped. This mutual annoyance was one of the very few instances of human interaction I had all day. There are very few people I find interesting anymore, but bookstores seem richer than most places in terms of social extremes (which, though not particularly interesting, definitely have their entertainment value).