No book sales this weekend, but what do you know? One of the garage sales proclaiming that it had books had some books. And some videos. And some records. So for $16.25, I got:
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- The Pride of Chanur by C.J. Cherryh. I read this book in college after discovering it was the source of Leslie Fish’s song “The Pride of Chanur”, it’s about a cat race who have a naked man hide out on their ship after being captured by a trading partner. Heather has since heard the song, but has not read the book. Now she can, after I reread it.
- 2010: Odyssey Two and 2061: Odyssey Three by Arthur C. Clarke. I saw the movies out of order; I saw 2010 several times while it was in heavy Showtime rotation and I was a poor young man confined to a trailer in rural Missouri. I saw 2001 a couple of years ago when Heather got it on Netflix. Now, with only the last two books, I can finally figure out what the monoliths meant. I hope it’s not screwed up like Rama was.
- After Worlds Collide by Philip Wylie and Edwin Balmer. I read the first book, When Worlds Collide, in middle school or high school.
- Songmaster by Orson Scott Card. Because he’s supposed to be good or something.
- Slapstick by Kurt Vonnegut. Now that he’s dead, I see a lot of his old hardbacks for sale. Perhaps with the master dead, the spell is broken? I haven’t yet read one, so I wouldn’t know.
- All of the Star Trek movies on videocassette except Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.
- Clue on videocassette.
- To Our Children’s Children’s Children and On the Threshold of a Dream by the Moody Blues on vinyl.
- Softly, As I Leave You by Frank Sinatra on vinyl.
- Chariots of Fire on vinyl.
I thought it was going to be a greater deal, as I’d heard the little old lady running the sale that videocassettes were fifty cents, which meant I could not pass up the almost complete set of Star Trek films; when I got to the checkout, though, she charged me a buck each. I am a weak man; I cannot quibble over $4.50 to a sweet old lady who was probably selling off stuff her grandchildren played with and read, ungrateful grandchildren who never call or visit and leave her to eke out a living selling junk to afford the tomato sauce she can cut with water and call soup for dinner every night. So I bucked up and paid the nine bucks for the lot. Come to think of it, she must have charged me a dollar a piece for the albums, too, instead of the fifty cents they were marked. I’m an easy mark, apparently.
Still, one does what one can to keep the library growing to keep up.