Fuerza de la Revolución.

So, having fixed my office shelves earlier in the week (they had looked like a nice mountainside switchback there for a while), I'm sitting peacefully (dashiki, granny glasses, and yes, halo, all in check) yesterday afternoon, minding my business and typing away when there's an enormous CRASH behind me. Doomsday! Al-Qaeda? No, just three shelves which decided to go on strike and bury me under a pile of debris. The great 'Book Revolution' of 2006 -- cheap furniture overthrowing the shackles of an oppressive ruler who also happens to be a packrat. Boards fallen like dominoes across the river Styx. Splinters spit like darts. Plastic nubs smirking behind overworked cheeks. The BANG was loud enough to bring people running from the back offices. In panic. Which quickly disintegrated into (mocking) giggles. Thanks, guys.

Ground zero, immediately following the collapse: I am thankful to the rescue dogs who pulled me from the wreckage. Still have the bite marks, though. And unfortunately, the St. Bernard's cask was empty. Too bad -- it was 'First Friday', too. New regulations, now strictly enforced, forbid literature traveling with carry-on liquids that can be detonated. Nobody can tolerate the loss of words that would cause -- random letters splattered on the wall, unrecognizable. Construisant des mots inconnus dans autres langues. Silence in the aftermath. Ah, sweet, sweet silence.

Being Shelfish: I got the last laugh on the picketing shelves though, as I completely dismantled them and gave them a new home where they'll be able to 'pick-it' at will. They're going to be turned into toothpicks. And sold to sweaty men with yellow teeth named Butch. "Have fun with the threads of fried chicken and stray chewing tobacco," I said, wagging my iron fist. Which was full of splinters.

And now, I have a bigger office. But nowhere to put anything. Sigh.

"Casualty ankling for a new contract": Usually, when athletes get injured, they 'go on the shelf'. This one got injured coming off the shelf. Tough job being a wide receiver with no feet, he agreed, nodding away. But when he gets better, he'll be able to run agility drills between the myriad piles of books and paraphernalia spread like stalagmites across my floor.