I took a quick peek at Adam’s wish list, as he has a birthday coming up (yeah! on December 8th, he’ll finally be in his thirties, just like me!), and though he’s promised me a list of things he wants, he hasn’t yet done it (although I bet this weblog entry corrects that situation!). And lo and behold, what’s on his wish list? Books. Books as in a bound set of white pages with tiny black marks, which you need to spend considerable time staring at, turning pages, looking at more black marks on white pages to comprehend. Books as in the type of things you need to spend time (lots of time if you’re not a speed reader) reading. Um, hello? This is from the man who spends all of his weblog time bitching that he has too much work to do and way too much reading? This is from the man who has a stack of books yeah-high that he’s “going to get to?†The man is a junkie. He must be stopped! Anyone who sends him books is merely an enabler. Don’t do it, man! You want to send Adam something, send him drugs, send him booze, send him tobacco! But friends don’t let Adam read books.
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