i am a book bigot. in the midst of my many-years-long torrid affair with biography, i've had only the most casual of dalliances with fiction, and primarily only with the fiction of people whose fiction i already adore.
the dread pirate is also a book bigot, though his devotion lies at the opposite end of the bibliospectrum. the dread pirate is exclusive with fiction. and for this, he's been the recipient of many an oline frown.
but some weeks ago i made a lucky steal from the pirate's trove. mark helprin's frederick & fredericka. it was hardback and it was huge. it was the antithesis of light subway reading. thus, after a respectable passage of time, i returned it. fortuitously, some days later a more friendly, twenty-five cent paperback copy encountered me in a thrift store.
thank anne shirley for thrift stores and dread pirates.
today, during rush hour, standing in the train and clinging to a pole, i used my free hand not for balance, but to hold frederick & fredericka aloft. i laughed out loud no less than five times. HUGE laughs. HUGE mwaahhhhhhhh, peewee laughs.
a guy in a hot pink camouflage vest moved further down the train. an elderly woman looked at me with oh, how sad that a girl with such impecably applied eyeliner should be having a mental breakdown aboard brown line run 372 eyes and quickly followed him.
today, for quite possibly the first time ever, i was the scariest person in the room. i was officially scarier than hot pink camo. it was glorious. there will be no more frowning at the fiction.