Kindle Can't Hold a Candle

Over the weekend, I found myself, by chance, in an independent bookstore. I was walking Olivia, strolling through downtown Danville, when I noticed the inviting window display of Rakestraw Books, featuring hometown hero, Captain Sully Sullenberger and his new book, "Making a Difference: Stories of Vision and Courage from America's Leaders." He was scheduled to do a reading the next Friday, so I went in to sign up. Why not? I figured. Turn off "Jeopardy" and go out once in awhile. Live a little.

Yeah, I'm a wild and crazy kind of gal.

After registering, I perused the small, quaint store, fingering the latest best sellers and flipping through quiet but intriguing unknowns. Admiring the creative, colorful book jackets, inhaling the scent of fresh ink and woodsy paper. And I was reminded of the inviting and intimate atmosphere of independent bookstores, something I've missed since getting a Kindle for my birthday. Sure, downloading books is convenient, but that's it. Convenient.

Since the store is dog-friendly, I had Olivia with me--just try bringing a 70-pound animal into a big box book store--and several customers approached me, asking if they could pet her. Of course, I said, glowing with pride as my little tiger, so nicknamed for her striking brindle coat, put forth her best behavior.

One customer shared a story about his childhood dog, a beloved Border Collie. Another mentioned a book she'd recently read, "A Dog's Purpose," that I told her is sitting on my nightstand, and we conversed a bit about that. When I overheard a customer ask about the bestseller, "The Art of Fielding," I was reminded that, oops! that's the book I was supposed to be reading for my next book club meeting, so I grabbed a copy. And when I asked for a bag since I had a few miles to walk back home and didn't want to get the cover dirty with sweaty fingerprints, another customer went behind the counter and got one for me .

"I don't work here," he said with a grin, "but I'm here all the time." While he was there, Olivia got to enjoy a couple dog biscuits kept stashed behind the counter. When I left 40 minutes later, I felt a warm sense of connection with my community. A connectivity that didn't include routers or cables or modems.

As I walked back home, clutching the first honest-to-goodness, tangible book I've held in months, I pondered e-readers. Convenient, sure, and great for downloading sample chapters to determine if the book is something I'll like. But, at least for me, e-readers are to reading what Facebook is to friendship.

Nice, but just not the same.

The Girl Who Pushed My Patience

If you're one of the handful who haven't been swept away by Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo blockbuster trilogy, I'm about to save you a chunk of time. That's because-- while the first two books were pretty good--the final one didn't quite live up to the high expectations set by its predecessors.

And so, to spare you the agony of sifting through almost 600 pages to find out what finally happens to the trilogy's heroine, Lisbeth Salander, allow me, if you will, to offer this brief but effective summary of:
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest
Under armed guard in the intensive care ward of a Swedish hospital, Lisbeth Salandar was in critical condition. The brilliant computer hacker was fighting for her life after being shot in the head by her deranged father. Fuzzy thoughts filtered through her bullet-ridden brain. "If I survive, will I be charged with attempting to kill the man who attempted to kill me after I first attempted to kill him 20 years ago" she wondered. "And where can I get a decent cup of coffee?'"
Back at the office of Millennium Magazine, Salander's former lover, journalist Mikael Blomkvist, was worried too. Over a cup of coffee, he shared his concerns with his colleague Svensson. Or was this Eriksson? Jonasson maybe? Fredriksson? Who the hell knew, all their names sounded alike. "I feel oddly compelled to help prove her innocence," he mused while pouring himself another cup of coffee. "She may appear tough, but deep down she's quite vulnerable. We must unravel this cover up involving Sapo, Sweden's secret police." He absentmindedly stirred his coffee. "But how?"
Meanwhile, at a coffee shop on Sodertaljsonn Street, a surveillance team from Sapo was watching Blomkvist's every move. Confident that the trouble-making journalist wouldn't be returning home for awhile, Pieresson finished his coffee, then broke into Blomkvist's apartment and planted a kilo of cocaine behind the coffee machine. Exhilarated over setting up Blomkvist for a drug bust, Pieresson suddenly found himself famished. As he left the apartment, he returned to the coffee shop for a meatball sandwich. And another coffee.

Back at the hospital, Dr. Jacobsson pondered the condition of his infamous patient while nursing a cup of coffee. He felt oddly compelled to help this tough, yet vulnerable young woman. As he sipped his coffee, the buzz of the call button snapped him back to attention and he saw that it was his tough, yet vulnerable young patient. She was requesting more pain meds. A laptop. And coffee.
Upon Salandar's miraculous recovery, she was discharged and made to stand trial for trying to kill her father who had tried to kill her for previously trying to kill him for trying to kill her mother. But thanks to Blomkvist's undying loyalty to the tough, yet vulnerable young woman--despite the fact that she now despised him because he had slept with Berger..or had it been Bergsson? Berjkssun? Birjksson? Whatever. Sweden's corrupt government was finally exposed, the secrets of Sapo revealed, and Salandar exonerated.

And everybody went home and had a cup of coffee.
The end.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

Actually, it was a cool and misty eve, but whatever. I was curled up on the sofa, sipping a chocolate martini and nursing a broken heart. My DirectTV receiver/DVR had gone the way of the Big Sleep, taking with it two years worth of recorded movies. This unexpected turn of events put me behind the eight-ball with nothing to watch.

I was, indeed, a dame in distress.
What to do, what do to? Fraught with despair, I took a gander at a book loaned to me by this good egg I know, a fella whose literary recommendations I think I can trust. Or can I? I'm a sucker for them cats with the innocent mugs; they're always the first to lead me astray.

Not that I'm an easy mark, mind you. But on this particular night I was a desperate sister with nothing to watch and nothing to read; except that is, for some fluff of a book that's been lying 'round my joint collecting dust like a drunk collects giggle juice. A faded little paperback titled, "Eat Pray Love." Ya probably never heard of it.
Instead, I pick up my pal's recommendation; a worn out dingus titled, "Farewell, My Lovely" by Raymond Chandler. I wrap my mitts around the book and start reading.
Before I know it, my pretty little mug is buried deep within the pages, like some poor palooka in a wooden kimono. I find myself lost in the shady underground world of the 1940s, cavorting with coppers, gum-shoes, grifters and goons. Drifting through smoke-filled saloons replete with stoolies, snitches, and the occasional stiff.

And any thoughts about my dead DVR are soon given the bum's rush. That heap of junk can swim with the fishes for all I care, because this tomato's found somethin' better to do on this dark and stormy night.
Or cool and misty eve. Whatever.