On Halloween, I did a half-assed job of dressing up like Hunter S. Thompson and went out with my friends. I enjoyed seeing some of the costumes people had on. The one that really stood out was a guy dressed like a Nintendo. Like, the original NES system. He had a big ass cardboard NES around his torso, complete with the orange on button lit up, and had a Power Glove on one hand and the Duck Hunt gun on the other. Brilliant! But as usual, the loud music, the expensive drinks, the overcrowded area, the drunks acting like... well, like drunks. I began to feel a little out of place, so I walked around looking for... I don't know what. But I found something. It was a book. On a bench. Just lying there. Nobody sitting on the bench or anything. I wondered why it was there, so I decided to check it out. It was a novel by James Joyce. I don't remember which novel it was, but I began to read the first chapter. Yeah, sitting at a bar, reading a random novel I found.
And then a man sat next to me and offered his hand. "Hello, I'm James Joyce." I shook his hand. "Hi, I'm Hunter S. Thompson." This guy was dressed as an early 20th century Irish author. How fucking cool is that? I ended up having the best conversation I've ever had at a bar. His friend came by and joined the conversation as well. He was dressed as Groucho Marx. Awesome! Anyway, sometime during the conversation, I asked him which Joyce novel I should buy. He recommended Dubliners. Two months later, and I now have it.
Haven't started it yet, though. Gotta finish The Lovely Bones first.