Through the soapy scrim of a mild hangover (you're soaking in it), I see that it was worthwhile to open the doors on this Sunday. Thanks, strangers! I love your book-buying ways. Wait, did someone say hangover? Yes, it was me. And it's more of a rumour of hangover; more of a persistant yawn and grape-skin glazing of the eyes. My throat, too, sounds meaner than usual. It's a noise I can't duplicate in text. Not without adding none-too-silent z's and w's and g's to words that would otherwise look like good English. My throat took a pounding last night at the dank karaoke club on Empire street, next to AS220. It was my rendition of Belefonte's Day-O that did me in, I think. I only hope it didn't infect me with Belefonte's recent and inexplicable madness. Or perhaps I'm long since immune. Either way, I'd like to thank Ashly and Anthony (you know who you are) for dragging me down there last night. Books make for good company but they are not always the best Saturday night companions.


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