We had a series of extremely violent thunderstorms over the weekend, which I enjoyed until the thunderclaps were right overhead. One particularly loud crack, and I was under the duvet with my fingers in my ears. The cats joined me, thinking it was a great game, and promptly wrestled each other. We must have looked like a demented being from a bad 1950's monster movie: the ominous writhing of a previously inanimate object suddenly turning the bedroom into a place of menace. Natasha's growling and hissing added to the otherwordly dimension under the covers.
Later, I went out to buy a book and got trapped at Davis-Kidd's horrible new evening live music presentation. It's a wonderful bookstore, but dang it, I don't want country music wannabes twanging and nasally moaning while I shop for books. Why can't bookstores just be bookstores any more? I approve of the notion of adding coffee shops to them, and indeed, D-K has a terrific restaurant section, but expanding beyond author signings and the Saturday morning storytelling sessions is not on. I really, really resent having music forced on me in a shopping situation. I don't like live music at restaurants that don't advertise it, either. Nothing puts me off my food more than loud music that I can't get away from. This is generally, you understand, because no one else likes the same kind of music I do at these establishments. If they start poetry readings on Sunday evenings at D-K, I'm outta there for good. No one is going to make me listen to their bad poetry and live. I'm sure "driven temporarily insane by bad poetry" wouldn't hold up in a court of law. Although I may be wrong. In California, it'd probably fly.