Of Buyings and Sighings

So let’s go over a few of the basics one more time before we head into the Grand Weekend.

Are you air-conditioned?

Yes. But don’t expect to be OVERLY cool when you’re surrounded by other avid bookhunters.

When are you open?

Next week, for starters. Don’t come by today, please. The hours are noon to 8 Thursday and Friday, and 10 to 6 Saturday and Sunday. At about 15 minutes to closing each evening, you will start hearing announcements that you need to start checking out. It isn’t that we want to deprive you of shopping time; it’s just that we don’t want you depriving us of sleeping time. (There are people who’d stay til midnight if we let them, but the Book fair Slumber party idea hasn’t caught on yet.)

Where’s the price?

Most books are marked in the upper righthand corner of the first white page; most audio-visual stuff is priced in the upper right corner on the back. Books which have suffered advanced design, and have no white page for the first third of the book are a pain. Check for other white spaces (clouds are handy for these crises.)

Will it help if I come and tell you a book is in the wrong place, or that it has been priced wrong?

No, but I don’t suppose that will stop you, will it?

Where are the restrooms?

There are smallish ones just beyond the turn into Room 2 (Humor and Nature, for you veterans) and larger ones down the stairs you’ll find across from the door to room 5 (records and Children’s books.)

Where can I find that nifty book on fuzzy socks you mentioned in that blog on June 30?

Don’t look at me, kiwi chutney. Even if I knew where it was when we opened, the chances that somebody has moved it halfway across the room by now are pretty good. I think they knew you’d be looking for it.

What’s the best bargain at the fair?

That book you just picked up, of course, assuming you plan to buy it.

Can I see the real Uncle Blogsy live and in person?

It’s kind of hard to miss him: he’s the distraught looking creature in the singular apron. My advice is that you admire him from afar: he’s not particularly humorous during the last weekend in July. If his nostrils are flared and he’s muttering to himself, stay out of the way: there’s a minor crisis somewhere. If he’s striding at high speed and his apron is flapping, pull way back: there’s a major crisis somewhere. If he’s running, that may mean the lunches have arrived and he’s going after the tapioca meatloaf.