(no subject)

Well, I went to work and didn't die. I even went to the library beforehand and managed to ferret out a few more books. I've decided that it's impossible to read Tolstoy-on-art as a postmodernist, however, and have summarily removed him from my reading list.

Today a woman called to ask our help and I snuck in a service we're not really supposed to provide for our patrons. She promised to remember me in her will. :D My poor colleague, however -- a gentleman came to the window to pick up his tickets and she asked him what his last name was, since we file tickets by last name. He looked furious and demanded, "What's yours, lady?"

For serious, you guys, all of human experience opens like a flower for the demigods of the box office.