mk700c

Yesterday I slept very little, and I was cranky. Cranky for me being a state not unlike the early stages of drunked, except way more irritable - filters keeping immediate thoughts from being blurted into consciousness are removed; especially when having to do with someone hindering my progress.

So at one point, and the more I look back, the more dumb oozes out of this - what may become my crowning jewel of incedence, the following words came out of me...

"Can you point me to the new Jon Stewart book ... oh, hey Billy Corgan ... "

" ... " *rockstar smirk and nod

"so, where's the book?"

It turns out that in my crankdified state, the hordes of teenie boppers - the navigation of which was what pissed me off enough to approach a circle of Border's employees to ask for help - didn't tip me off to the fact that something was going on there.

It seems that in pursuit of a bathroom and America: the Book, I had stepped into an enormous steaming pile of Billy Corgan book signing. I didn't even know he had a book.

Now, I'm trying to rememember if in my bee-line for the Borders employees if I had cut to the front of 1000 new-terna-kids, hopped any velvet ropes or at least was being stared at by hundreds of people.

Lesson of the day: sleep more, unless you want to end up asking rock stars for retail assistance.