Conversation ranged all over the place, well-lubricated by cocktails and wine so that people were making interesting observations and candid confessions that cannot be repeated in a public blog. Things were apparently a little too well-lubricated for Kevin, who once again did his level best to combat Irish stereotypes. Nothing disastrous, but he lay for a while in a quiet, dark room. As is well known, time flies like an arrow and fruit flies like a banana. Which is to say, our guests left at 3 AM, and I had just strength enough left to fall into bed.
Had a nice slow day on Sunday. My greatest adventure was going to the LA Times Festival of Books. Now that I see UCLA at roughly annual intervals, there's always a surprise. The long-abandoned frat house at Strathmore/Glenrock has been demolished. On campus, Kinsey seems to be undergoing reconstructive surgery and there are lovely white roses outside Haines that I don't remember being there. I picked up a signed copy of Jared Diamond's Collapse, the El Cholo Cookbook for Becca and a couple Philip Dick paperbacks with neat cover art. That paperbook guy had tons of really cool and swinging 60's spy novels and trashy erotica and trashy erotic spy novels. I was really taken by the Clyde Allison 0008 Series with titles like Gamefinger, Sadisto Royale and Platypussy. I thought to myself, "Haha, how shagadelic! I'll pick some of these up for Becca." Then I saw that the paperback of Gamefinger was $150. Damn! This guy was cranking out one softcore Bond parody a month, and now they're $100+ a copy.