So this evening I was going to go do something New and Interesting and possibly Fun and Exciting. It would have involved attempting to be sociable around people I've never met, but I was willing to give that a try.
Then I just sort of collapsed a little before four. Hazard of running on a) 5-6 hours' sleep a night and b) the last dregs of my emotional reserves, for most of the last two weeks, I guess. I was sort of mobile by sixish but still kind of shaky, and that didn't really get any better after dinner.
I have a well-documented hatred of driving into DC, and tend to enjoy wandering around cities, so my original plan for the evening was going to involve metro and a mile walk. By this point it was really too late to metro. So I was looking at the hassle of finding parking in DC where I wouldn't get ticketed or towed, on top of the stress of being a stranger and being in a New Situation... and I stayed home.
I deeply resent my body and brain choosing now
to run completely out of cope. One more day is all I asked for.
Earlier this week I found, on eBay, a reasonably priced Easton Press edition of Growing Up Weightless
. Easton puts out very nice leatherbound SF classics and first editions. At least, I'd always assumed they were very nice. Maybe I've been spoiled by Subterranean's The Club Dumas
but Weightless came today and it's... just kind of nice. Good solid cover, gilt-edged pages, decent paper, but nothing terribly special. This kind of kills any desire I may have had to shell out the money for the Easton edition of Lonesome October.
(Also, and interestingly, they didn't set their own type: they used the same plates as the Bantam trade paperback, the first non-limited edition. I wouldn't have even noticed but it's got a very distinctive font.)