Nice Philosophy If You Can Read It

$104.50 That was the amount flashing at the top of the cash register. Had I really just spent that much on philosophy? I guess 'philosophy' wasn't entirely accurate. Depends on how you categorize authors like Hunter S. Thompson, Woody Allen, Truman Capote, William Shakespeare, Sun Tzu and Ayn Rand. Yep, that's what was causing the crude, narrow handle of the heavy plastic bag to cut into my fingers as I walked back to my apartment. The price wasn't nearly as daunting as the sudden realization that I was now compelled to read all of this. Did me no good to simply own them. Was there time? Most people fail to read this many books in a lifetime, never mind going out and buying them all at once. And what caustic effect would all these diverse opinions have on my mind when I did read all of them.

Better handle this one cautiously, I told myself. Figure out a game-plan. Start out with Thompson. Read it as furiously as possible. Like plugging your nose and swallowing the medication all at once. After that, In Cold Blood will be like a refreshing glass of cool water to remove that God-awful grape taste of The Rum Diary. Don't get me wrong. I loved the Gonzo journalist. But the crazy bastard's writing was enough to keep me up for 48 hours rethinking everything about my life. So after that and an enjoyable reading of Capote's Perry and his shotgun it was time to tackle the behemoth. A small quiet voice in the back of my head had told me while standing in the bookstore, "You're completely mad. Absolute bonkers. Rand's masterpiece is over a 1,000 pages long. For God's sake the publisher's probably still proofing it. Put Atlas Shrugged back on the shelf. Better to start with the gateway drug. Pick up Anthem. It's an easy read and you can build up to it." But I wasn't listening to reason. No, not today. Never again.

I weighed the paper brick in one hand, sizing it up in my right as my left balanced the stack of five, small Woody Allen short stories. It was like Harrison Ford in Raiders right before switching the bag of sand with the golden idle. Just before that boulder destroyed the entire temple... I swallowed hard. I could do this. I'll break Atlas Shrugged up into section and read a Woody Allen book in between. Like swimming the English Channel and coming up for air in five places. I'd heard from several reliable sources that Ayn's book had a habit of rewiring your brain. But my brain had been wired from age 10 and on with Woody Allen films. I figured this would indeed be the safest way to handle the read. Treat the rewiring like diffusing a bomb.

That left the Shakespeare and Sun Tzu. That was simple. I'd save The Art of War for when I was feeling formidable and in need of strategizing. And ten minutes of Shakespeare monologues everyday before bed. Not just to put me into a good comatose state, but I'd heard from an astute writer and friend that it was exactly what the actor/writer in me needed.

I headed towards the bookstore exit with what was left of my will power, shielding my eyes at the Watchmen display table. I'll see the movie, I told myself. I can not believe I just thought that! Turning down the graphic novel isle was volume two of the complete Detective comics. The pointy-eared, cowled, caped crusader glared his narrow eyes at me from every cover, beckoning me to continue with his training. Can't stop here. This is indeed bat country! The doors were in sight. Avoid isle 3, D-F. You've already read the Sherlock Holmes novels. Which leaves you to be pestered by Dickens and Fleming. There'd be time for David Copperfield and James Bond novels later. I rushed past the eighty different Obamas smiling from the magazine racks and pushed open the doors. Stumbling into the streets of Old Town Pasadena, I breathed in the fresh air.

"Spare change?" The voice broke through my reverie. I looked down at the friendly faces of several street musicians that had camped out on the sidewalk. "Spare change for starving artists to buy marijuana?" They couldn't be serious. Heck, I couldn't be serious. Not after what I had just done. I glanced down at the plastic bag, nearly bursting with the oddest assortment of mind-altering novels. Conscious-expanding novels. I smiled, digging into my pocket for the fifty-cents I had in change left over from the spastic purchase a few moments ago.

I dropped the two quarters into his hat. He grinned and nodded at me. The two of us sharing a common understanding without ever knowing it. I turned and began walking back home. Once again I was swept up with the overwhelming clarity that I was where I was supposed to be. Now I just needed to start doing the things I was supposed to do. Become whoever it was I would become. I rolled my eyes. The books weren't going to do it for me, naturally. But they'd give me something to do on the trip.