Barnes and Bobo

I dropped Barb off for her class at college before going across the street to our clannish culture center, Barnes and Noble. It's Bobo out of water whenever I enter these halls of hardcore highbrows. It's like going into a bar. People here and there, sipping a few words from a book and glancing around the place to see who's looking at them. "Please don't catch me looking at an art book or making a futile attempt to find a book on Church history or scrounging through the computer and sale books," says Bobo as he lowers his baseball cap. Must be his self-righteous self smelling up the place again.

The parking lot's fresh air and setting sun calmed old Bobo's uneasiness. "Let's not pretend we want to go there for awhile," he offered. "Fine by me, but, man, you're weird," I added as we jumped into the truck and hand signalled all the way home.