TDAOC: Tough on books. Tougher on old ladies.

In response to this/this, and this, and this, and so forth from one litblog to the next (all of which being a rambunctious debate over whether litbloggers should disclose whether the books they talk about on their litblogs were freely given to the bloggers by publishers), I've decided it's high time I came clean to you about my own sordid book acquisition habits. Goodness knows, you can't trust my written opinions about books until you know how I've come to possess the books I write about. You certainly couldn't read my posts, read the books I write about, and then decide for yourself whether you agree with my opinions, possibly voicing your agreement or disagreement via e-mail or post-appending comment sections, thereby entering into the sort of rigorous and enthusiastic discussion just about every litblogger seeks to encourage. Goodness, no. Critical thinking is not what us readers sign up for, after all! So let's clear the air twixt you and I, then, eh?

Every single book I've ever talked about on this blog has been stolen from an old lady. It's not just that I steal books from old ladies, though, no no. What I do is I find old ladies walking down the street, I beat the pus out of them with their own orthopedic shoes, and then I swipe whatever books they happen to be carrying in their purses. Typically, I don't know what books I'm going to find. This keeps things fresh by introducing an element of chance into my blogging activities; one day I find an old bitty toting around a collection of David Foster Wallace short stories, the next, I'm stuck reading all seven of Steve Erickson's novels. (Very heavy purse, that day. That old lady, tough one, she put up a fight.) My current obsession with Gravity's Rainbow? I could have finished the book in two days, but there's been a severe shortage of old ladies walking past my apartment lately. Also I hope this explains why I won't be reading Against the Day anytime soon. It's just a bit too heavy for the average old lady's purse, you know?

One exception to the rule is I buy my own William T. Vollmann texts. Old ladies, it turns out, fucking hate that guy. Weird.

Anyways...hoo, boy. It feels good to get that off my chest. Now you're informed and can make up your own mind about whether or not you trust my opinions about books I've found in the purses of the octogenarians I have personally pummeled into submission with my own fists. Ethically speaking, everything here now checks out. Now, I challenge my fellow litbloggers to step forward about the issue of book acquisition. Tell us your secrets. Together, we can keep everything above the table. Unless you're like me, that is, and you had to dismantle the table so you could use the legs to bat old ladies into the ground, because you'd left your brass knuckles in the car that one time. Oh...that one time.